


~Unmasked~

by katnissdoesnotfollowback



Category: Hunger Games Series - All Media Types, Hunger Games Trilogy - Suzanne Collins, The Hunger Games (Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Historical, Discussions of illness injury and amputation in a historical setting, Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, Implied/Referenced Suicide, Implied/Referenced miscarriage, Minor Character Death, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, These tags make it sound worse than it is, almost all of this happens off screen and is only talked about
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-25
Updated: 2020-02-25
Packaged: 2021-02-27 09:27:15
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 34
Words: 234,072
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22414711
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/katnissdoesnotfollowback/pseuds/katnissdoesnotfollowback
Summary: Written under an Anonymous pseudonym ~M~ to fill the following prompt: Historical Katniss and Peeta hate each other. They attend a masquerade ball and for some reason end up kissing each other. Sparks fly everywhere. Katniss tries to find the man behind the mask but Peeta knows it was Katniss though he doesnt say anything. They end up bethrothed even if they 'despise' each other. How they fall in love is up to u and how katniss figured out it was peeta is up to u
Relationships: Katniss Everdeen/Peeta Mellark
Comments: 288
Kudos: 209
Collections: Everlark Fic Exchange - Springtime 2019





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> So...here we are. All of it in one place other than tumblr. I'm not an historian nor am I an expert on the time frame when I set this. I did my best with the research, but know and acknowledge that there are probably errors, hence why I set it in a fictional country and not a real one, although real places are mentioned. 
> 
> Shameless inspiration was pulled from several of my favorite historical novels and period films, a few will be patently obvious, others likely not so much.
> 
> You may notice there are more chapters here than there were when this was posting to the everlarkficexchange site on tumblr. That is because I spilt any chapters that were over 10,000 words into two chapters here. Hopefully that makes reading this sucker a little easier. It somehow turned into an epid I swear that was not my original plan but it kinda aorta got away with me. Whoops. Anyways, I hope you enjoy reading it as much as I did writing it! <3 ~M~ / KDNFB

The rain only exacerbates my headache. On most days, the soft sounds of it would soothe, lulling my busy mind into a calm state, inviting me to linger on one of the cushioned window seats scattered throughout my home.

My home. The current source of my headache. Today the rain only serves as a cloak, masking the sound of silence that has permeated the house for the past week. And now, a letter arrives to cause more worry.

A soft knock on the door pulses in my temple and I cease rubbing my soles. Lower my feet to the floor and arrange my skirts before sitting up straight, shoulders stiff.

“Enter.”

“Katniss,” Prim says softly as she enters, her wide blue eyes frightened and sad. Bad news then. Had father awakened, her face would surely show joy. “Dr. Aurelius is packing up his things. He wishes to speak to you before he goes.”

“Mother is the healer. She should speak to the doctor,” I insist as I stand and work to rearrange several of the papers cluttering my father’s desk. I’ve made quite the mess of his space in my attempts to deal with pressing issues. When I glance up, Prim is shaking her head.

“He says he needs to speak with you.” My hands freeze over the stack of unopened correspondence.

“Very well.” I slip my feet into my shoes, hiding my wince. They pinch my toes, but I cannot exactly greet the doctor in my stockings. My mother would have a fit. If she even noticed my stockinged feet. On reflection, I kick the shoes beneath the desk and follow my sister up the stairs to the master’s chambers. Perhaps the shock of seeing me speaking to a man while not wearing any shoes will bring her out of the fog of denial she has begun to live in. 

As we reach the door, a tall and bone weary man emerges from the room. He rubs his eyes behind his spectacles and then closes the door, not before I catch a glimpse of my mother rocking in her chair, embroidery needle flashing as she works, lips moving as she speaks to my father as though he can hear her.

“Doctor Aurelius,” I greet him and Primrose stands slightly behind me.

“Ah. Miss Everdeen.”

“Shall we speak inside?” I motion towards my father’s room and the doctor shakes his head, waving one hand to prevent me from opening the door.

“I think it best we discuss this either here, or perhaps downstairs might be better.” I scowl and fold my hands together, stand straight and nod, giving him permission to speak his mind right here. “I have tended what wounds I can, but there are some I cannot touch. Your father is healing--”

“Excellent.”

“However, he remains in a coma, Miss Everdeen.”

“He will not die?” My voice breaks on the last word and once more the doctor rubs his eyes.

“I cannot guarantee that,” the doctor explains. “His heart beats, his lungs breathe, his body functions on the most basic of levels. For now, his life is preserved, but unfortunately he is unresponsive. I cannot say that he will ever awaken. He might awaken briefly only to pass from this world. The shock of emerging from a coma may prove to be too much for him.”

I stare past the doctor’s shoulders at the closed door and wish for the ability to see through the solid barrier. Or perhaps not. I have no real desire to see my father’s essentially lifeless body, nor my mother pretending as though he is still there.

But he’s not. Not really. And what I truly desire is guidance on what we are to do next. Prim takes my hand in hers and squeezes. Perhaps the touch is meant as a reassurance. At the moment, it only serves as a reminder how many people will depend on me the longer father remains in a coma and mother remains in denial.

“I see,” I manage to say. “So there is nothing that you can do?”

“I am afraid not. I am...sorry Miss Everdeen.” I lift my gaze to the doctor and manage a nod. “Send for me the instant he shows signs of moving on his own or waking. Perhaps if I am here, I can respond to any emergency that arises at the time. There is also the matter of your mother. I am concerned.”

“I thank you for your assistance and kind words,” I say, cutting short his assessment on my mother. She is not the patient in this case, and quite frankly, I fear that if we coddle her as Prim has done in the past few days, she will only continue as she is. “Shall I see you out?”

“Indeed.” I am not granted respite as we walk, however. The doctor persists in delivering his news. “Your mother's efforts to speak to your father may be the best thing for him. However, if they are unsuccessful, I fear for your mother’s health and mental stability.”

“We shall keep her as grounded in reality as possible, Doctor.” I assure him and then inquire after the doctor’s other patients on our lands, asserting that we are done talking about this. I do not fully hear his answers, although I should be more attentive. All I can think of is that my father may never awaken. I may never see his kind eyes or hear his loving laughter ever again. Never sing with him as Primrose plays upon the piano. Beside me, she once more squeezes my hand and this time, it does soothe a little.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

In the evening, we sit at dinner. My mother does not join us, refusing to leave my father’s side for any reason. Primrose fills the hour with talk. Local gossip, the health of the herbs in her greenhouse, the abysmal weather and how much she wishes for a picnic when it clears.

I spoon my soup into my mouth, spine stiff and left hand resting in my skirts as I swirl the spring green concoction in the spoon bowl to cool it before delicately sipping.

How I should like to throw the spoon across the room and scream out this rage inside me. My father is a good man. The best. Such a fate should not befall the best sort of men. There are enough of the wicked in this world that should suffer this fate instead.

“Did you hear me, Katniss?”

“Yes of course,” I say to Primrose as dessert is set in front of me. Her eyes widen and I try for a smile. “We shall make ribbon shopping a priority as soon as the weather clears.”

She smiles and relaxes, gleefully spooning her dessert into her mouth. I’ve no stomach for it and excuse myself to return to the business awaiting my attention in the study. I’ve letters to answer and I have postponed them long enough.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The rain persists, delaying the spring planting. It would be foolish to lay the seeds now only to have the torrential downpours wash away our livelihood before they can take root. 

“Please do not go, Katniss. Wait one more day. It is sure to clear then,” Prim begs me. It was a rain much like this that caused our father’s horse to lose it’s footing. The injuries. The pneumonia. And now a coma all a result of this blasted weather.

However, I can no more sit at home, watching my mother embroider pillow cushions or weave tapestries that will turn out useless in the end, refusing to leave our father or to deal with the needs of her children. We have a farm to run and without my father present or my mother willing, the duties fall to me.

“We’ve no way of knowing that, Prim. I could delay until tomorrow and if it rains then, delay until the next day, and then the next. Your herbs are needed.”

“Send someone else.”

“I’ll not ask them such a thing. Besides, the exercise will do me good,” I claim as Charles helps me onto the mounting stone. I settle into the saddle, slide my foot into the stirrup and he hands me the reins. “I will be back in time for dinner, Little Duck.”

“Perhaps I should go then. Ducks swim.”

“Nonsense. You are young and beautiful and cannot be spared,” I tease with a smile. “I am practically a spinster.”

“You are no such thing. Be careful or I shall claim your green slippers as my new dancing shoes.”

“You will not. I plan to wear them to your wedding some day,” I say with a smile as I urge Sagittaria forward and into the rain. It is a warm, spring rain, a sign of a turn in the weather. I take it and my banter with my sister as seeds of hope that all will work out, and the rain is not so bad after that.

I travel with my bow and arrows, extra dry clothing all wrapped in oilskin cloth to keep them dry. My father’s great coat does much to keep me dry as I make my rounds. Delivering on what needs I can, assuring the people that we will plant as soon as the weather clears, playing for a time with the children -- one of the few joys in life these days are their eager smiles. Sometimes they ask songs of me. It is...difficult to sing now, with my father laid lifeless in bed. Everyone asks about him and expresses concern for his and our well being. 

I can see it in their eyes, though. The true concern is what happens should he expire. A change in governorship brings many unknowns, and should he die -- an awful pain radiates in my chest at the thought -- should he die, the land and control of the farm pass on to a distant cousin. A cousin from whom I have recently received correspondence. The letter remains at home, on my father’s desk. In truth, the missive was penned to my father, but seeing as how he is currently unable to read, I feel no qualms in reading his mail. I have already sent my answer in father’s stead and now await a reply.

In truth, I need to read father’s mail in order to keep the estate running and to see to the needs of our people. I save the inn in town for my last stop, a good stopping place before making the final trek back to my home as well as a good place to spread and receive word from neighbors. Word of Father’s health has spread quickly and several concerned patrons offer a glass of sherry to me. I decline and accept only a mild mulled wine. Assure them all that we will continue at Everdeen as though my father is in excellent health. The words leave a bitter taste in my mouth, too similar to the naivete my mother has been spouting for days now.

The truth is, we find ourselves in a dire situation. Father is as good as dead to us. We must grieve and act accordingly.

With the neighbors informed, and the rain stopped momentarily, I mount my horse, glad that Sagittaria at least was given a good rub down, her coat gleaming and dry, her tack oiled and cleaned. I slip the last of my coin to the groom, to thank him for taking such good care of my horse. 

“Thank you, Eddy.” He smiles toothily as he assists me into the saddle. 

“Anytime, milady. She’s a lovely creature.”

“Loyal and steady as any,” I confirm with a nod as we venture forth.

The mud sucks at her hooves, but she walks steadily on towards home. The main road as I travel remains empty, blissfully erasing the need for idle chats or pauses to speak to anyone. The warm, fragrant air clears my mind, the scents of wet earth and sprouting plant life promising a bountiful year. I am halfway home when the sun peeks briefly through the clouds, a fingerling of promise.

In almost an instant, it vanishes. A cold sweep of wind makes both Sagittaria and I shudder as the rain resumes. I make a disgruntled noise but urge her onward. She tosses her head and protests, her feet sliding in the muck.

“Steady, girl,” I admonish, placing my hand on her neck. She continues to falter and then slips, stumbles. I gasp as we roll and cry out in pain. I’m left gasping on my back in the mud, face pelted with frigid rain as Sagittaria regains her feet. “Don’t move, darling. I need to see if you are injured.”

She pays me no mind, testing her footing and then nuzzling me. I huff and then laugh, because what else am I supposed to do? This is precisely how my father fell ill and here I am stupidly in the same situation. I should have brought a groom with me, as Charles urged me to do, but my stubborn pride once again has landed me in trouble. But no, I will not end such as this. In the mud on my back. Father would not stand for it. I can see him in my mind, leaning back and crossing his arms. 

“Figure it out, Firecracker. You’ve brains and spirit to spare. Use them,” he would say.

“Alright girl, one moment.” Placing my hands beneath me, I manage to hoist myself to sitting. Nothing feels broken and so I shift my weight for the next stage. Sagittaria nudges my back and I make an attempt to stand, only to collapse back in the mud. I pet her nose and scratch behind her ears. “We’ll try again in a moment.”

“Do you need assistance, miss?” I sigh heavily and look up at the two men approaching on horseback, rain running off the brims of their hats, their coats nearly soaked through. One in fine attire -- although his clothes show the wear of several days travel in poor weather -- astride a hulking beast of a grey horse. The second garbed in the attire of a servant, astride a much smaller, more docile brown. A third horse follows in trail with a few bags lashed to the saddle.

“Indeed not,” I say to them with false cheer. “I was simply enjoying a mud bath. Very refreshing.”

The man dressed in wealth chuckles and motions to the servant, who promptly dismounts and hands the reins for both his own horse and then Sagittaria to the wealthy man. The servant reaches for me and the wealthy man coughs.

“Joe.”

“Right. May I touch you in the endeavor to free you from the vile clutches of the mud? I swear not to attempt to graze your breasts.”

“Pardon?”

“Up we go!” The man grasps my hands and lifts me from the mud. The horses shy away from our sudden movements as I totter and nearly take us both down. He’s quite short, with light brown skin and dark brown eyes that narrow at me as I examine his face. He turns away from me to deal with the horses. It wouldn’t take much for me to knock him over on a good day. Today I’m wearing twenty extra pounds of mud soaked skirt and while that might weigh me down a touch, it also gives me more momentum if I catch him surprised.

“My thanks,” I say, instead of tackling the man. I attempt to gather my skirts in some manner so I can mount Sagittaria and depart the company of these two strange men. “A true gentleman, having your servant wrestle with a person in the mud rather than getting a speck on your pristine gloves.”

“Actually Miss Airs Galore--”

“Let it pass, Joe. The lady has a point,” he says and I lift my nose in annoyance at his defense of me. I dislike being forced to accept help while in such an embarrassing position. As I stumble, a hand reaches down to steady me. A gentle grip on my arm that keeps me from slipping yet again.

“Are you alright? You are not injured?” he asks. All I can do is stare at his gloves, the mud now spread on them from grasping hold of me. He does not flinch or pull back from the filth.

“Turned ankle. Nothing more. I shall be fine.” Up close, with him leaning down towards me, I can see beneath the shadows of his hat, through the rain coursing off the brim. What appears to be blonde hair, broad shoulders although that could be a trick of a clever tailor, handsome features. Scars that curl and grasp at his skin along the left side of his face, across part of his cheek, up his temple close to the corner of his eye and disappearing beneath his hat. For one second, my pulse stutters as I think of the marks on my own skin and how someone marked like me may be accepting rather than repulsed. 

That’s before I look into his eyes. Blue eyes filled with mirth. Mirth indeed. He’s not at all handsome to be laughing at me in my undignified state. “If you will unhand me, I’ll be on my way.”

“The horse, Joe,” is all he says before grasping me around the waist and lifting me straight out of the mud.

“Unhand me!” He ignores my shouts as he sets me on Sagittaria’s back. Joe holds her steady.

“Which ankle?” he asks as he lifts my left leg and frowns at my boots. 

“The left! Although I cannot see how it matters.”

“Your boots are a maze of laces. I’d rather only spend time on one.”

“Here,” Joe says, and I gasp at the flash of metal as Joe slices straight through the laces. My erstwhile rescuer scowls slightly at Joe. “Faster that way.”

“You’ve destroyed my boot!” It’s such a simple thing that should not upset me this much. They’re fairly old, I could likely afford a new pair, however, I shouldn’t have to. They were molded to my feet, comfortable and like a second set of skin as I rode. While I’m still upset over my destroyed boot, it’s removed and tossed aside.

“Are you a doctor or a brute? Let go of my ankle,” I protest as he fingers the flesh, sending strange currents up through my leg.

“Apologies. My manners are still a bit rough. I’m a field medic, previously of the East Panem Light,” he explains, releasing my leg and sitting up in his saddle. A soldier. That would explain the scarring on his face. “I am used to patients concerned more with speed of treatment than propriety. Peeta will suffice. This foul fellow is Joe.”

“How to do?” Joe asks and curtsies at me. I blink and shake my head. Confused at being provided with their given names and no surnames, not even a rank.

“And you are?”

“Miss Everdeen,” I tell him.

“May I now examine your ankle, Miss Everdeen? Before we all catch sick from being in this rain?”

“Only an utterly brainless lady would be out alone in this weather,” Joe states and I glare at him.

“You were riding through it,” I remind him.

“We’ve urgent business and plans to stop at the inn in Seam,” Peeta explains. I huff, but tug my skirt up enough for him to once more check my ankle. He removes his gloves, stuffing them into a saddle bag before reaching for my leg. I grip tight to my saddle as warmth spreads across my skin where he touches my soaked and mud splattered stockings. A tingling ventures places it should not at the touch of a stranger. 

Good lord. These must be the sort of bodily temptations Father Crane preaches against every Sunday. This man has a sinner’s touch. Then it is gone before I can register its full effect.

“The coach we traveled in broke an axle. We could not wait and instead chose to ride. I do not think your ankle is too bad. Nothing that cannot be dealt with at home if you have a decent healer about. You live near here? Perhaps the estate we passed a quarter mile back?”

“Yes, and my sister is a capable healer,” I tell him, attempting to arrange my skirts. Then I’m hauled out of my saddle and onto his lap. “Sir!”

I sit up straight and squirm. “I’ve no time to argue, Miss Everdeen. Your horse may be injured as well and carrying you with your dress weighed down with mud could make the injury worse. My horse will have no difficulty carrying us both.”

“A brute then,” I accuse, but stop fighting when he turns the horse back up the road in the direction they came from, the direction of my house. I do not relax, however. I’ve still no way of knowing his motivations or intentions.

“Of the worst sort, Miss Everdeen,” he says, his voice warm and tempting, inviting forbidden thoughts and fears. I shiver and ignore his deep chuckle at my predicament. My bottom resting up against his groin, my legs draped over his right, although there are several layers of skirt between us. His hand on my belly holds me steady. I cannot feel the warmth with the coat I am wearing, but the pressure of his touch is unavoidable. Thankfully, Peeta remains silent until we reach the house.

“Miss Everdeen!” The shout rings out as we approach and the door is opened. The rain thankfully has lessened to a mere drizzle.

“She may have turned her ankle,” Peeta informs the butler as he lifts me off his horse, bending over to set me gently on my feet. His hand lingers on my waist until I have my footing and one of the maids has hold of me as well. “Miss Everdeen.”

He tips his hat at me and then turns his great big horse to leave. Joe tosses Sagittaria’s reigns to Charles, my ruined boot to Mary. A flurry of activity ensues as the men depart and the staff rushes me inside, into a tub of warm water. My mother is sent for to examine my ankle and pronounces I will be fine then promptly returns to my father. Prim lingers, mixing herbs for a poultice to reduce the swelling. I simply need rest. I am questioned about the two strange men, Primrose having the most curiosity.

“So he rescued you then?”

“I am not sure what to call it.”

“How romantic,” Primrose sighs.

“I assure you. It was not romantic,” I tell her, although the flutterings in my belly as I think of his broad palm spread there, holding me secure, the ribbons of sensation tickling up my ankle to my knee would suggest otherwise. I shake it off as absurdity. “I was covered in mud and God only knows what else. And he was quite rough in handling me.”

“A shame,” Primrose moans as she stretches across my bed. “That would have been a beautiful story to tell your children one day.”

“Hardly,” I say, although I do get a laugh at the image of it. A fire, children spread around my knees, clinging to my skirt as I tell them of a time of mud and muck. Preposterous. I have more important things to think of than romance and shake away the laughter. It is not right to be laughing with Father in his current state.

“You should find a way to thank him.”

“I cannot. He only provided his given name.”

“Katniss, you are terrible at this romance business.”

“But I am skilled at actual business,” I remind her, tapping her nose with my finger once I’m dressed again. Her face creases in annoyance at the gesture. Perhaps she is growing too old and mature for that now.

They continue to fuss over me through the evening, and I shift my feelings to silently fume at the rude manner in which this Peeta character and his man Joe handled me and tossed me about. I am grateful that their intents turned out charitable rather than nefarious, and true it was efficient. I cannot argue with the speed with which they acted and normally I would approve of such efficiency. Today, for some reason, it bothers me. Perhaps it was the contradiction. Peeta’s insistence that Joe request my permission before touching me and then assuming that his own touch would be welcome. I console myself that I was quite right about him. He is a brute, and it is thankful that I will likely not cross his path again.


	2. Chapter 2

The rains cease long enough. The air clears, fresh and warm. A beautiful spring day beckons through the windows and so I take the daily post into the garden to read.

It sours the gardens for me as I read through the letters and I soon regret my decision. Father appears to have taken a gamble on our crop this year. Ordering seed for a few herbs that while in high demand, do not fare in overly wet years. I have spent days now requesting guidance and information on how best to proceed with this crop and the answers have finally begun to return to me.

I make a note to discuss options for draining the north field a little more with our steward. The north field sits on the highest elevation on our farm. It would be best suited for the planting, but we will have to be swift if we are to prepare the field in time.

All of that business is time consuming and stressful, however it is surmountable. A task to be taken care of, nothing more. It is the final letter which I open with trepidation. A missive from one Rory Hawthorne, esq.

_ Esteemed Sir, _

_ With regret, I must delay my visit to your estates. My older brother Gale remains abroad however, our intentions stand firm. While I am sure your farm is indeed a gem, we simply cannot spare the time to oversee it as our own ventures of fortune have turned most lucrative. As soon as I am able, I will pay visit, assess the properties with our man, and then auction the farm to the highest bidder. Half of the funds shall then transfer to your daughters and wife, as discussed. _

_ With great respect, _

_ Rory Hawthorne, esq. _

My eyes sting with indignation. Tis bad enough that I cannot inherit the land my father and I have cultivated and nurtured. No, the louts who will inherit plan to auction it from under our feet at the first opportunity. True, they promise half the profits to us -- but only half! An entire lifetime of love and devotion to this land and her people to only receive half. To be forced to split the proceeds with a stranger who has never known my home. It infuriates me. I’ve no way of knowing if Gale and Rory Hawthorne can be trusted. They may be cousins, but they are no real kin of mine. To speak of our business as though our father is already dead and buried when his heart yet beats!

I glance up towards the windows, wondering what my mother does now. She once told me that father remodeled half of the home simply so that her windows would overlook the gardens. I thought it romantic at the time, now I think it a terrible extravagance. I pocket the letter from Rory Hawthorne and walk towards the stable. I am not dressed for riding, but sometimes brushing Sagitarria’s coat helps to calm me.

She whickers and greets me, her great brown eyes soft as I rub her nose and whisper to her. I spill all my fears and worries, thank her for listening and then retrieve a brush. “May I enter?”

With a toss of her head, she invites me in and I smile as I set to work. The cadence of the strokes brings clarity. I allow my thoughts to wander, hoping that once they have roamed through my mind and I call them back to order, I will have some sense of them.

“Miss Everdeen?” I sigh at the interruption.

“Here, Charles.”

“You’ve a visitor.” I pause and think a moment.

“We were not expecting company.”

“No, Miss. She says she’ll go if it’s a bad time. I tried to say it was, what with the Mister laid up such as he is, but Mrs. Sae insisted she stay. Set her up in the drawing room.”

“The drawing room?” I hand Charles the brush and ask him to finish with Sagittaria as I hurry back to the house, wondering at Sae’s treatment of our guest. I spot a hired carriage retreating back up the lane and hasten inside, glaring at the small pile of luggage in the hall and halting in the doorway to the drawing room as a lovely woman dressed in a dark grey travel habit removes a hat and veil, her blond hair in a beautiful twist. Sae sits upon the floor, playing with a child no more than two or three years old. A soft cry escapes me and the woman turns to me, confirming what I already know.

“Katniss,” she says, her voice wavering slightly.

“Madge,” I say and we move to one another, arms embracing tightly. “It has been years.”

“Too long, dear friend. Far too long,” she agrees. With a loud sigh, she steps back and takes my hands in hers. “You are just as I remember you.”

“Stubborn, covered in dirt, and unmarried?” She laughs at this and tears seem to gather in her eyes.

“How I’ve missed you! But I cannot stay. Sae has just told me of your misfortunes. I cannot impose.”

“Nonsense!” I shout as Sae protests as well.

“I told you the Misses wouldn’t stand to have you leaving. I’ll see to your rooms now, and take this precious little berry with me.” Sae lumbers up to her feet and scoops the child into her arms. “Don’t know if we’ve linens fine enough for a countess--”

“Oh don’t. Sae, please,” Madge insists, cringing and folding her hands together. “Please do not call me Countess. I would much rather be Miss Margaret all over again.”

Sae shrugs and the child giggles. I cannot help but reach for her and take her into my arms, cooing at her and examining her perfect strawberry blonde curls.

“I don’t believe we’ve met, darling! You must be Maysilee.” The child babbles back to me and plants sticky hands on my cheeks, her blue eyes bright and alert. “We’ll have you a fine horsewoman and running wild over the hills in no time. Your Aunt Maysilee would have been proud to see you bear her name.”

“I’ll give this one a bath too, while I’m about it,” Sae says with a smile. “It’ll be nice to have babies running about the house again.”

I swallow back a retort at that, too happy to have my friend back to rise to Sae’s bait just yet. When she leaves us, I turn back to Madge and an unfortunate silence falls over us. Without her child and Sae’s bluster, it seems that I do not know what to say to my oldest, dearest friend. We knew each other so well, having grown up as neighbors and confidantes. Inseparable to the point that I knew where she and Prim had hidden one day when disaster struck our families.

“I truly am sorry, Katniss. Your father…” she stops and swallows. I take her hand in mine and she wipes at her tears. “I did not shed a tear for the earl’s death. Not a single tear. And now I am glad of it. I saved them for someone more worthy.”

“Papa’s not dead yet,” I remind her and she nods.

“I know. It’s just that I know how hard this must be for you. Shouldering everything as you always do when you are needed.”

“And what of you? You seem...desperate. And a widow for what? Only a year now?”

“Yes. A little over a year now. And I am desperate,” Madge confesses with a nod, and another tear slips free. “I shall stop crying for myself now, though. The earl’s family wanted nothing to do with me after his death. His son -- the Earl now -- resented me, I think. That his father would seek another bride after his own mother passed. Maysilee was never wanted by anyone but myself. I could not bring myself to exist on their charity a second longer. A year was far too much. It was only a matter of time before they turned us out and -- look at me. Barely an hour in your home and already I have unpacked all my troubles at your doorstep.”

“We are friends, Madge. It is not your fault you had a wretched husband and suffered his wretched family.” I wind an arm around her waist and turn her towards the door with me. “Let’s see if we can find Mary to draw a bath for you, a clean dress, and then we can talk more.”

The busy servants for the next half hour as they see to the needs of our guests rouses my mother from her rooms. I have a moment of hope as she holds Maysilee for a short time, but then a shadow seems to pass over her face and she thrusts the child into Prim’s arms before rushing back into my father’s room, slamming the door behind her.

“I had nowhere else to go,” Madge whispers that evening under the bustle around us. I know this, and yet I am glad that she came. It may mean two more mouths to feed, but Madge has not much changed since last I saw her. She may be more quiet and reserved now, older and grown into a mother. She is grace and beauty, but she was always those things and much more. Quiet, kind, and brave. I know this has not changed about her when I find her in the kitchens, assisting with the dinner preparations, wiping her hand on an apron before clutching my hand in hers and squeezing. “But I will not be a burden to you,” she promises.

I spend the next few days overseeing the draining of the north field and reacquainting myself with my friend. With a few false starts and stutters, we quickly discover that our friendship remains preserved. I wonder at her life the past five years as a countess, and remain patient. When she is ready to share more details, I shall be ready to listen.

My father’s condition changes little. Mother begins to exercise his limbs with help from several of the stable grooms. I watch from the door one afternoon and cannot continue. Unable to see my father manipulated like a puppet, I saddle my own horse and tear through the fields to the crest of the north field to watch the sunset instead.

One day, I return from the north field, trousers covered in mud up to my knees and a deep scowl on my face, lost in thoughts of auctions and futures. Angry at a world that claims to revere its ladies only to leave them with nothing and no hope when their husbands perish. Were it up to me, I would never wed, I decide. Not that anyone would have me anyways. The marks on my back have assured that. Unmarried or not, however, I am left with very few ways to care for those I love.

I must do  _ something _ . Doctor Aurelius paid another visit and reminded me that my father could pass from this world from the coma at any time, without warning, or that he could awaken only to perish then. My mother is little help. She prefers to cling to the thin hope that he will awaken and resume his life that day as though nothing happened. I, however, cannot afford that luxury if merely because she chooses to hold to it, leaving me to see to our needs. 

The point is, there will come a time when we will no longer be able to rely on my father to provide for us. Then what? Who then would I take my mother and sister to and beg shelter as Madge asked of me?

That is an uncharitable thought. Madge has been a great help and a comfort to me since she arrived several days ago and I would like to think I have been so to her as well. We are friends, after all. Unfortunately, friendships and love do not provide a roof or sustenance.

The one obvious solution is one that I detest. Marriage.

I did not always despise the idea of marriage. Perhaps as a young girl I even looked forward to it and dreamt of it. I can’t rightly recall. All I do know is that ever since the fire, marriage has been neither a priority nor a simple option for me. I absently scratch at my back, although the scars have long since healed and ceased itching, save for days when it is hot and hard work leads to me to perspire a great deal.

As if the world has decided to taunt me, thinking of my scarring leads me down a path of thought I have tried ardently to avoid. I catch myself now that I’m awake. It is the night that is my thoughts’ enemy lately. Cleared of unwanted thoughts, I stomp mud from my boots and climb the steps only to find yet another pair of uninvited visitors in my hall. I hope they are not expecting dinner. 

“Katniss, this is Miss Delilah Cartwright and her brother, Elijah,” Madge tells me.

“A pleasure to finally meet you, Miss Everdeen! I’ve heard so much about you,” Miss Cartwright effuses and I stare at her. She’s dressed simply, an apron over her dark blue dress and her blonde curls tucked under a cap. A few riotous strands escape and fall around her plump face. She curtsies and I notice marks on her hands. Calluses. And then several trunks behind her.

“What are you doing here?” I ask. Rather rudely, I realize and shake my head to clear it of thoughts. “Apologies. I am tired and rather muddy.”

“I can see that,” Miss Cartwright says and giggles a little. Madge bites her lip and motions towards the parlor.

“Miss Cartwright, why don’t you and your brother set up your wares in the parlor while Miss Everdeen freshens up?”

“I don’t understand,” I hiss at Madge as she guides me towards the stairs. “Who are they and what do they want?”

“Here. Prim read it by accident. I didn’t understand, but she said that you would,” Madge presses a letter into my hands and smiles. “I am looking forward to a chat and perhaps some cocoa tonight. It’s a little chilly this evening.”

With that, she vanishes into the parlor, leaving me to trudge upstairs with my letter. I unfold it and scowl at the already broken seal over the direction.

_ Miss Everdeen _ __  
_ Everdeen Farm Estate _ _  
_ __ Seam and Shire

_ Southeast Panem _

It would be easy for Prim to mistake it for herself with the absence of any letter to denote our given names, however as soon as I read the first few lines, the invasion of my privacy bothers me.

_ Miss Everdeen, _

_ Forgive the tardiness. My urgent business did not turn so well, however, that is no excuse for my leaving you so callously missing a serviceable boot. Delilah is one of the best cobblers in the area where I was a boy. She will see to your needs. I have already paid for her services and wares. At least one pair of boots to replace the pair I am responsible for destroying, and perhaps a pair of dancing shoes should you feel the desire to dance over this letter in indignant rage. I shall think of you scowling as you do so. Please consider it repayment for my less than gentlemanly behavior. _

_ ~ Peeta ~ _

It’s as though my thoughts of him while walking conjured his letter and these visitors. I change and clean up as best I can before hurrying back down to the parlor to find that Madge has served our guests tea. An assortment of fabrics and leathers spread across the worn sofas and my cheeks heat at the embarrassment of having such fine materials covering the signs of our recent financial struggles. Everdeen is and always has been a profitable farm. The past few years, the margin of profits narrowed a great deal and I sometimes wonder if it is the fault of two daughters of marrying age hanging still about the halls. I, at the least, should have been wed and gone by now.

“Miss Everdeen!” Miss Cartwright sets aside her tea and stands abruptly when she sees me. “Please. Take your time perusing the options.”

I wander the room and fight my mounting annoyance. He tossed me about like chatel, bruised me, embarrassed me, and then left me unceremoniously on the front steps missing a boot. I should not feel bad accepting a gift such as this and yet for some reason, it bothers me. Perhaps because he could have left me struggling alone in the mud, and despite the rough treatment, Peeta and his man Joe in truth did a great service for me. I am left in their debt and yet he sends presents.

“If you’ll tell me what sort of boot Peeta is replacing for you, I can better determine the leather I will need,” she says. 

The use of his given name, and more so the confusing feelings elicited in me at her use of it, gives me pause. I ignore her eyes on me, as though assessing who I am. It occurs to me that perhaps she is a sweetheart of Peeta’s, although I find it difficult to believe a man of his wealth would court a tradeswoman. He could have a lady, easily. Perhaps marry into a title. I wonder what this girl is to him or if it truly is that he respects her skills, nothing more.

They must be quite close after all, I think as I examine another leather that is more yellow than brown and quickly reject it, for him to send her so far to make a few pairs of shoes. 

Now I truly am angry and decide that I will absolutely take a pair of boots as compensation for his treatment of me. Perhaps two.

“Riding boots,” I tell her and finger a fine sheet of dark brown leather. Soft, supple, and yet thick. “They were well molded to my feet,” I try to explain my attachment to them. I feel silly and can’t place why. Almost ill to my stomach and I review what I ate today to determine if something there might be the culprit.

“What you have in your hands then might work quite well,” Miss Cartwright tells me and then produces a book containing drawings of different boot styles. My head spins a bit and I point to one. “Oh those are lovely! And quite comfortable, I am told. If you’ll have a seat, I’ll get your measurements.”

“How far did you travel, Miss Cartwright?” Madge asks as I sit.

“Oh please, call me Delly. Everyone does so!” She insists and Delly sets to work. Her fingers touch many of the same places Peeta’s did and I find myself blushing at the memory of his touch. Her’s is efficient and not nearly as gentle, by comparison. How did I think him a brute again? “Peeta and I were children together in East Panem. Lovely place! Have you been there?”

“I can’t say that either of us have,” Madge says for both of us.

“Oh well, it’s a good few days of travel from here,” Delly explains as she works and my head spins. “It’s been quite fun getting to travel and see some of the country and Peeta’s been a darling, paying for our expenses. I tease him that he quite owes us now that he’s rich and we’re not. Mr. Mellark’s not nearly so generous, but Peeta’s never been one to ignore the needs of a --” she stops herself and laughs nervously, glancing at Madge’s dress in muted colors of late mourning but clearly of fine fabrics. My silk stockings beneath her hands and the finest leathers. “My mouth escaped me just then.”

She purses her lips together after that and restricts herself to discussion of the wares. Once she has the beginnings of two pairs of boots and one pair of slippers, she insists that she will be able to finish them by the end of the week if I’m available for another fitting then. I tell her that I am, and see her and her brother to the door.

“I think perhaps her brother is mute,” Madge reflects as we watch the pair climb into a worn cart pulled by two old nags.

“Perhaps.”

“Alright, Katniss. I’ve waited long enough. Tell me about this Peeta Mellark.”

We walk in the garden, enjoying the late afternoon sunshine and I relay the story with a few flourishes. She laughs at the image I paint of me covered in mud and both our cheeks pinken as I mention his examination of my ankle or the manner in which I rode his horse in front of him. 

“I did not expect to hear from him again, and I did not know his surname until Miss Cartwright let it slip,” I finish.

“Really?”

“Really,” I say and smile at her. “Do you know the name?”

“I’m afraid I don’t. I didn’t have much time in society after I was married, with the babies.”

“Babies?” Madge purses her lips and turns back towards the house. It is almost dinner time anyways and I am famished so I follow, waiting for an answer.

“I lost two before Maysilee. One before it was grown much. The other was a boy. Stillborn.”

“Oh Madge,” I say and pull her into an embrace. She only allows a quick one this time, the excitement over a piece of the mystery being solved having caught up to her.

“We should ask your mother if she knows the name Mellark.” I cringe at that, but Madge is determined and somehow, after dinner, convinces Mother to join us in her personal parlor. Prim plays some music for a few moments while Madge sews and Mother plays with Maysilee until I think I see hints of the woman I know and love so much. It makes me realize how much I miss her and I’m not surprised when Madge eases into asking me about my new boots.

“New boots?” Mother asks, her curiosity caught as Maysilee climbs into her lap and I retell the story with less detail this time. Mother does not need to know that the thought of Peeta’s fingers on my leg still sends strange tinglings through my skin or that I have perhaps had a few impure dreams about his touch.

“Did you say Mellark?” she asks at the end of the telling. I nod and she sighs. “I had a beau with that family name once. Reginald Mellark. He’s now a Marquis with a number of sons himself, I believe. Fabulously wealthy family and stunningly handsome,” she smirks at me a little at this. “He was a divine dance partner and quite the catch. He pursued me and my parents were quite happy to see me wed to him. We were expected to be  _ The _ match of the year. Most others thought I would not be able to resist his charms.”

Madge chuckles at this and I sit stiff as Prim leans into me.

“What happened, Mother?” she asks breathlessly. I, however, find this conversation a tad disrespectful with my father bedridden in the next room over.

“Well Reginald was handsome but could be a tad ruthless. Your father...well your father was the better man. I did not care for wealth or titles. Kent Everdeen had something that made him a far richer man. A good heart and a good soul. I always did prefer a gentler touch anyways.”

We all blush at the implications my mother speaks now. Shimmers of a phantom touch circle my ankle and I shift it further beneath my skirts. Ridiculous.

“It was a small scandal when I accepted his proposal over Reginald’s. Reginald insisted I would come to regret my choice. He was...entirely wrong. I have never once regretted it.” 

I melt a little at my mother’s soft words. Prim sighs and Madge bows her head, toying with her fingernails and I wonder if she regrets her choice to marry the man her parents chose for her instead of searching for a love match as my mother did.

Handsome but a tad ruthless. The description fits Peeta in a way. He admitted to being rough and ungentlemanly with me, after all. Prim’s thought seem to follow a similar vein as she turns to me with a sly smile on her face. “I wonder if your Peeta is one of Sir Reginald the Ruthless’ sons?”

“It is possible,” my mother says and stands, setting Maysilee on her feet to toddle to her mother. “Be careful what gifts you accept from that man, Katniss. You’ve no way of knowing what conditions come attached to them.”

It’s the closest to my mother acting as her normal self that we’ve had in quite some time. Which perhaps is why it hurts so much when she leaves us then to return to my father’s side.

I do not sleep well that night. I am caught in dreams that merge and twist together. A burning mansion. Crops that wither and die in their fields. Gaunt faces and cruel faces. An open, empty grave and quiet sobs. A door slams in my face and mud sucks at my limbs. When I wake, I am unable to separate the pieces of my dreams. All I know is that I have avoided this decision far too long. At first, the planting provided an easy excuse for my lack of action, but I now know that I cannot delay any longer. If I am to secure a future for my family, I must act now before Father slips from this world, leaving us unprotected.

Rising with the sun, I wash and dress in a fine yellow morning gown and march to breakfast, glad to see that all three of the women and the one child who now somehow rely on me are gathered to hear my announcement.

“I’m leaving tomorrow for town. I will be back with a husband for the harvest.”


	3. Chapter 3

As a child, my father used to set me in front of him on his horse. Astride with my skirts flapping in the breeze like a bird’s wings as we rode across the farm. When my mother complained of his habit of treating me like a son, Papa found a pair of breeches that would fit me to wear when we rode or moved about the farm, seeing to the needs of the land and our people. One day when he felt I was old enough, he took me into the woods, teaching me to hunt. It wasn’t a skill that I necessarily needed. We were wealthy enough to hire someone else to hunt meat for us, but my father insisted that I learn where everything we relied on to survive originated. He wanted me to have an understanding and a respect for all living beings, a humility found in the knowledge that in taking a life to sustain our bodies, we owed the earth a debt to care for her soil as she has cared for us.

Perhaps he intended it, perhaps not, but the lesson he taught me that now burns in my mind is that nothing comes from nowhere. I cannot sit in my damask chair and expect the world to care for me or to see to my needs, nor to those of the people depending on me. I must take care of that myself. Food does not appear on the table simply because I feel hunger.

“Are we going to stare at it or dare we go in?” Madge asks with a soft teasing lilt and I thrust myself from the carriage and towards the gaudy city dwelling I am now faced with, ignoring the outstretched gloved hand offering assistance. I am used to hunting in the quiet of the woods, in isolation surrounded by nature. Not in this stone and smoke urban jungle. I march boldly up the stairs and prepare to knock. Uncle Haymitch reaches my side then and pulls my lifted fist away from the door.

“This is not the country, and Effie would never forgive me if you knocked on the door for your first dinner party.” I glance over my shoulder at Effie as she fusses over Madge.

“Do I stand here and sing for entrance then?”

“No,” Haymitch says with a deep chuckle. “I do the knocking. You do the hunting.”

The first step of hunting is to stalk your prey, which requires silence and observation. We are welcomed and ushered into a parlor where we are handed a small glass of something that fizzes and makes my head spin a little. We already know the hostess, having spent at least a week squandering our time in teas and salons and parlors meeting every woman of Aunt Effie’s acquaintance and many who were not until recently. 

“Darlings!” Effia had greeted us when arrived at her and Haymitch’s town home, before I could even knock on the door. Clearly I was unaware of this societal rule forbidding me to knock. At the time, Effie’s embrace had been welcome, if a touch effusive. After several days of travel, all Madge and I wanted was a nice bath and a good nap. It wasn’t to be. “You came to your uncle and I for assistance in finding a husband and that is precisely what we shall be doing. He can provide introductions to gentleman, I can provide a thousand other things. A foot in the door through the ladies, a fabulous wardrobe. Alicia! Send word to Cinna that we shall need an appointment post haste! And Margaret, my dear… We’ll have Cinna whip up a few dresses for you as well. I won’t hear any arguments! Mourning is no excuse for a countess to dress…” Her eyes dragged over Madge’s plain grey woolen travel habit and she shuddered. “So...so...”

“Drab?” Uncle Haymitch had suggested and then protested as Madge and I both imposed upon him for embraces. He pretended to be annoyed, but I know him better. He was happy to see us both.

That began our week of parlor visits and stiff high collared tea dresses while I waited to be unleashed on the real marriage market. A steady stream of women with their daughters or nieces and even a handful of ladies came to call, drawn by the rumors of a heretofore unheard of eligible young woman and her widowed friend. I’ve learned all about the eligible sons of these women and have yet to see a single one of them.

Father always did say that before laying a snare, one needed to know what sort of beast you planned to trap. A snare meant for a rabbit would never hold a wild boar. This is what I tell myself every time I balk at the guidance or instructions Aunt Effie doles out to me. While I attempted to follow Effie’s example and instructions that first week, I did not care for how much time I spent seated in her parlor, sipping tea and hearing the same gossip on endless loop, answering the same questions about who my parents are and how long I plan to stay in town. I have a husband to snare and do not appreciate being restricted to the parlor. Everyone knows that one cannot hunt from inside the parlor. You might spill blood on the carpets and then Aunt Effie would die of apoplexy.

I also do not appreciate meeting the mothers, and sisters, and widowed aunts, and fourth cousins twice removed of every potential suitor on Haymitch’s list in addition to a few who are not on his list, but not the suitors themselves. 

“How can I select a husband if I never meet any men?” I had asked an exasperated Aunt Effie as I stood still for her dressmaker, a lovely woman named Cinna who worked quietly and seemed to see things in my face that I didn’t know existed. 

“Good bone structure. Lovely eyes and hair...you carry yourself with regal bearing and strength. If I didn’t know better, I might have mistaken you for a duchess. My dear we shall be showcasing your spirit,” she murmured as she circled me and examined my body and face.

I still have no idea what she meant by that. While Effie’s wardrobe with it’s excess of ruffles and shimmering fabrics leaves me in physical pain sometimes, the day dresses and dinner dresses Cinna has already managed to finish for me are quite lovely. Still, I see no real show of spirit in their delicate folds. I rarely wear breeches anymore -- at my mother’s insistence after the vicar’s son wrote a rather explicit poem for me shortly after I turned fifteen -- and dresses like these do not make me miss it, yet I still worry about the ball gowns that will expose my shoulders and back to the world. Perhaps a shawl would work to cover my scars and it might become my signature accessory. I don’t have much time to devote to such thoughts, however. There are still a few days before we have a fitting in our ball gowns. I also have a farm to protect and a husband to ensnare. 

“We are spreading the word, darling,” Effie insisted about all our parlor visits and teas. “You cannot meet a suitable husband without a proper introduction.”

Unlike the woods, I cannot simply saunter into a ballroom, select a groom, and drag him to the altar. This type of hunt requires more finesse, I am told several times a day. Which is where Madge enters the picture apparently, because I lack finesse on my own, although I would argue that stalking prey in the woods requires a certain level of finesse. What good is hunting if you announce to your prey that they are your target? None.

“Euphegenia, so glad you could join us tonight. And I see you’ve brought your lovely niece and her friend. I don’t believe you’ve met my nephew. Mr. Cato Baxter. Cato, darling, this is Miss Katniss Everdeen of Southeast Panem and her dear friend, recently widowed the Countess Hargrove, Lady Margaret Charmaigne.”

The introductions and small talk continue as guests arrive and while Effie insists there will be several eligible bachelors in attendance tonight, I find myself restless and disappointed with the offerings. Mr. Baxter seems arrogant, although he supposedly fits the requirements on my list. Mr. Marvel annoys me within seconds of conversation. 

“Green does not fare well with your complexion. Perhaps you should wear more of a rosy shade, Miss Everdeen,” he says with what I imagine he thinks is a helpful smile.

“How unfortunate that my favorite color does not fare well with my complexion,” I say with a tight smile in return. “At least in your esteemed opinion. I however find men wearing burgundy to be quite ostentatious.” Madge coughs quietly at that and Effie hisses to me to watch my tone. Altogether, the dinner party turns out unremarkable.

It’s the same all week. The guests vary little and I start to wonder if perhaps this task of mine will not be so simple. Everyone who seemed so kind over tea in Effie’s parlors now seems amused by the comments their relations -- all supposed gentlemen— make in my presence. Comments on my dress, my lack of style, my brash tones, my outspoken demeanor, or even my age. 

I begin to miss my home. I miss my father even more, although Prim reports no change in his health.

“A walk in the gardens,” Madge insists one day after another string of fruitless parlor visits. Mr. Thresh Jermaine appears interested in courting me, and he seems pleasant enough if a little quiet. He radiates force and intimidation, the sort of person whose will becomes law, and yet there is a gentleness about him whenever his young cousin, Miss Rue Beauchamp is about. And yet, something about him keeps me from pursuing more than a cursory acquaintance. I feel as though we might be good friends and not work as a couple. 

Madge leads me outside to the gardens as I smile gratefully at her. 

“I shall need to marry a prince simply to pay for the dresses.” Several more arrived earlier today and tomorrow we have an appointment for a first fitting with our ball gowns, for an upcoming masquerade party.

“They didn’t cost as much as all that,” Madge says softly. “Besides, the surest way to scare off prospective grooms is with the rumor that you’re seeking a fortune. And the best way to allay that rumor is with dresses that shout to your financial well being.”

“But I am seeking a fortune,” I remind her.

“Better he not know that.”

“Is that not dishonest?”

“Perhaps a little,” Madge concedes. “But what recourse do we have?”

I suppose in a way, she is right. We talk of Maysilee for nearly the entire time we walk. I can see the struggle in my friend’s eyes, the battle waging in her heart. She wishes more than anything to be at home with her child. While I have no claim of motherhood over my sister, I understand the fear I sometimes see in her eyes, at least a little. The fear of responsibility and the effects of absence. I worry about Prim at home with our absent minded and preoccupied mother. At least Prim has Maysilee and Sae to keep her company. I fear I am little comfort to Madge. It does her good to speak of her daughter, though, I think. Even more good when a letter arrives from Prim, detailing their adventures.

_ We are going to be the best of friends, Maysilee and I, when you return. Take care of Katniss for me and be sure she does not land herself into too much trouble. _

Prim wrote in her last letter, making Madge smile and relax at least for half a day.

My letters from home come from Prim but mostly from our steward, Thom. He can manage most issues, but I still cautioned Prim to write me of any emergencies that might require me to return early. I did not need to say it, but she understood that I spoke of Father.

“We shall be fine,” Prim assured me with a smile as we left. “We shall see you when you succeed. You are the best huntress in Southeast Panem. Who would think that one day you would use that skill to catch a husband?”

I laughed at the time, but the hunt grows long and I grow impatient.

“You are hoping to find him, are you not?”

“Who?” I ask and Madge shakes her head.

“Your Peeta Mellark. He has piqued your interest.”

“I just wonder why Haymitch did not include him on the list of potential suitors. He was dressed in wealth, which is my top requirement. Mother indicated that his father is a marquis so his bloodline is respectable. He claimed to have been in the military which means he’s likely a second or later son, not in line for the title.”

Madge hums and bends over to sniff a sprouting bloom. “Perhaps another reason then. His father may not be generous enough to settle money on him. He was in the military after all, and you did say you would not consider gamblers, womanizers, rakes, invalids, or reprobates. Perhaps he has a reputation.”

I did say that, and I did call him a brute. The gift of the shoes confused me after his abrupt treatment of me in the mud, however, tardy or not, it was appreciated. He remembered the destruction caused in his haste and thought to correct a slight. Kindness such as that has always intrigued me. And I suppose in a way, I am hoping for a friendly, familiar face at some of these social functions, even if it is a face I cannot stand to see again since it is linked to my humiliation. How can I face him in a drawing room let alone a crowded ballroom when he has seen me at my worst and his hands have ventured up my skirts before we knew one another’s full names? I am certain to blush horribly and give away my thoughts. That won’t do.

“Nor anyone who wishes to add to his land holdings through matrimony. Or perhaps Haymitch determined that I am not even suitable for a second son of a Marquis,” I add. I come with little to no dowry and none of the holdings variety. I am...disfigured in a way that would likely offend a high born gentleman, although I say that makes him a prat. Before Madge can refute me, I take a deep breath and straighten my shoulders. “It is best then that I not find him again. ‘Twould be embarrassing to relive the circumstances of our first meeting.”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

A month and still no luck in the husband hunt. I’ve opened my mouth one too many times and the number of potential suitors has dwindled drastically. Mr. Cato Baxter in all his glorious arrogance is the only one still visiting or bringing flowers. Awful roses grown in a hot house and stinking of an overpowering perfume. They are lovely to look at, and yet as soon as I get close to touching them, their scent makes me wish to claw out my nostrils.

Effie insists that my luck will turn with our first ball next month, but I am not so sure. 

“I’ve never been away from her overnight, let alone for this long,” Madge says as we sit at the table for dinner. We are rarely placed next to one another, a tactic meant to encourage socializing with new acquaintances. However a few of the guests tonight appear to have not shown and the hostess shuffled the seating arrangement to avoid large empty spaces at her table. 

“Prim and Sae are taking good care of her,” I assure my friend.

“I know,” she whispers and then faces me with sadness in her eyes. “Would you think me insane if I told you it is myself that I fear for more during this separation?”

I shake my head in confusion and Madge wrings a napkin in her hands.

“It is a fear that...she will be just fine without me. What then do I mean to her life if she barely misses me? It is selfish, I know, but for the past five years no one has loved me or needed me save for Maysilee. From the moment she opened her eyes, I knew that she loved me as I love her.”

“But that’s just it, isn’t it?” I ask. “You love her and she returns that love naturally. You’ve already taught her to love. She misses you, Madge. Perhaps it will not cripple her, but I think you don’t want that either.”

“Of course not! I suppose in a way, I am also afraid that I don’t know who I am without her anymore. Ever since she was born, every choice that I made was for Maysilee.”

“Well,” I suggest with a cheeky smile. “Now you can mother me. You are one of my chaperones, after all, Countess.” And tonight, she is acting without Haymitch and Effie. My aunt and uncle had a prior engagement and were unable to join us this evening.

Madge groans at her title but a rosy blush stains her cheeks as she smiles. We both know that her title demands a certain level of respect and affords us a kind of protection during this venture. We’ve already seen it’s effects. Doors opened and invitations issued that might not ever be extended to simply Miss Katniss Everdeen. 

Not to mention several gentlemen have noticed Madge’s sunny charms over my surly demeanor. It may only be a matter of time before she is wed again, this time perhaps happily so. Once her time of mourning has passed, of course.

The dinner is more enjoyable with Madge at my side, although the seat to my left remains empty. It is the first evening in a long time that I have not had to smile for a man and feign interest in his prattle while already marking him off the list of potential suitors.

“Apologies! Lady Roth, please, accept my apologies for my tardiness,” a male voice proclaims as a man hurries into the dining room, interrupting all conversation.

“Of course! Robert, my dear I am simply glad that you could make it after all. We were a few short on gentlemen this evening.” Lady Roth stands to greet the new arrival.

“You are too kind, cousin. I heard that quail was on the menu and cancelled all other engagements! Your cook’s quail demands my attention,” he declares as he enters my field of view and I nearly choke. Madge elbows me and I turn my head to whisper to her.

“He looks just like him!”

“Who?”

“I don’t believe you know all of our guests, Robert. Please. These charming ladies here.” Lady Roth rattles off Madge’s name and mine as he smiles down at me and I’m a little stunned at how handsome he is when he’s not soaking wet or showing the fatigue of travel. I have to remind myself that this is not the same man who plucked me from the mud. The word  _ brother _ rings in my head for surely there’s no other explanation and I am certain it is confirmed when Lady Roth finally reaches the point of giving us his name. “My dears this is Sir Robert Mellark. Third son of the Marquis de Vale.”

Madge now coughs at the name, although we both manage to nod at him in greeting. Sir Robert snatches my hand off the table and bows low over it with a charming smile.

“Enchanted. Miss Everdeen.”

“Robert we’ve already rearranged the seats but there is a vacancy next to Miss Everdeen if that is agreeable.”

“More than agreeable,” he says, eyes never leaving mine as my cheeks heat and my heart seems to have grown wings in my chest, beating wildly against its flesh and bone cage. 

Warnings ring in my head at his smooth flattery, but I silence them within seconds of him sweeping his chair back and sitting next to me. 

Sir Robert speeds through the necessary pleasantries with breathtaking speed, which I appreciate as I am tired of repeating them on end, and he soon has both Madge and I laughing at his tales of searching for the perfect plums at market that morning. It seems so strange. The son of a Marquis searching for his own plums, but the way he speaks to everyone at the table, I form the impression that he wears his nobility carelessly, as though it were merely a speck of dust and not something that defines him.

“They were an excellent fruit and I wish I had some to share with the party,” he says and Madge smiles before turning to speak to someone across the table from her. My attention, however is drawn to Sir Robert, leaning in close to me and speaking softly, so that only I can hear. “Have you had the joy of sinking your teeth into an especially tart plum recently, Miss Everdeen?”

I am not sure what sort of innuendo the man intends, but his voice caresses and teases. And then I’m not thinking of Sir Robert’s plums but of Peeta’s hands on my ankles. A thrill slithers up my thigh and I draw my ankles close together, as though someone might see beneath the table and my skirts and somehow guess at my thoughts. A sinner’s touch, a sinner’s voice. Yes I am almost certain they must be brothers.

“Not lately, although you shall be the first to learn if I do,” I say and am rewarded with a dazzling smile. I wonder if my mother felt so bewitched by my father and turn to focus on my soup after that.

After dinner, the ladies gather in the drawing room while the gentlemen abscond to the study with Lord Roth.

“That isn’t him, is it?” Madge hisses as we sit down to play cards.

“No,” I whisper back. “Brothers perhaps. Though the features are almost identical.”

“Then your Peeta is quite handsome.”

“He is not  _ my _ Peeta,” I hiss. Madge nods and we continue on, although I notice a gleam in her eyes. It’s not until the men rejoin us and Sir Robert occupies a vacant seat at the card table that I discover what mischief she has planned. 

“Sir Robert, I believe my dear friend has already had the pleasure of meeting your brother,” Madge says with a bright smile. I for one, do not appreciate the direction of the conversation. I told her I did not wish to relive my humiliation in the mud. I only wound up there through a series of unwise decisions, after all. And I cannot seem to stop thinking about it while I would rather forget the entire thing.

“Oh? Which brother? There are several of us, I am afraid.” He says with a slight laugh that draws attention to our conversation.

“He gave his name as Peeta,” I explain since I’ve little choice. Madge has dragged me into this fiasco and I cannot be rude. Effie reminds me almost daily that my lack of polished manners drove away Mr. Marvel and Mr. Thresh Jermaine as suitors for my hand. I argue that they were not truly interested.

“Ah so you met my twin.”

“Twin?” Madge asks with real curiosity in her voice. Our fourth at the table, a Miss Davenport, snorts indelicately at this.

“Can you really call him that, Sir Robert?”

“We share a father, were born on the same day, any number of people confuse us for one another--”

“Yes but I don’t believe this is a  _ proper _ conversation for polite company.”

“Miss Davenport is scandalized. I apologize Countess. Miss Everdeen.”

I am about to ask him why his speaking of his brother would be considered improper when something in what he said seems to click into place, like a tumbler in a lock. I share a look with Madge, her eyes wide as she purses her lips and shakes her head slightly. Before I can confirm, Sir Robert deftly moves the conversation to the masquerade ball the Duchess of Cashmere will be throwing in a little over a fortnight. It is all that anyone can speak of these days.

“Will you be in attendance, Miss Everdeen?” Sir Robert asks quietly. “At the masquerade?”

“I believe we planned on it,” I tell him and he smiles.

“I am glad to hear it.”

He moves on from the card games after that, leaving me with a hundred questions and a fluttering pulse. The fluttering thankfully only lasts a moment or two and I am able to enjoy the fresh night air on the drive home. A rain cleared the sky this afternoon and now the scents of early summer abound. I miss my home. The thought causes me to withdraw further into my own musings.

“So then. Sir Robert is a cheeky flirt and the mysterious Peeta is an illegitimate son,” Madge says as we prepare for bed that night. They share a birth date and a father, Sir Robert had said, implying that they do not share a mother. “Perhaps that is why Haymitch kept him off the list?”

I say nothing, still too lost in the quagmire of my thoughts to formulate an intelligent response.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Sir Robert visits for tea. He sends flowers and asks for a dance at my first ball of the season. The Duchess of Cashmere’s masquerade. Aunt Effie is thrilled.

“I told Haymitch he should expand the list a little higher. After all, a third son--”

“Does not usually stand to inherit a thing,” Haymitch reminds her.

“Yes except everyone knows the Marquis has settled a healthy income on all his sons and lands of some sort on most of them. And why shouldn’t he? The man can afford it.” Haymitch opens his mouth to argue and Effie snaps open a fan, fluttering it madly in front of her face. Madge speaks up to avoid the fight brewing.

“What of a fourth son?” I glare at her.

“There is no fourth son,” Effie says with a click of her tongue that closes the conversation and answers the question of why Peeta was left off the list. Or perhaps I am wrong. Haymitch’s mood takes a turn for the worse and I wonder at it. He is my mother’s half brother after all. He must know of her history with the Marquis. Perhaps there are more sinister secrets lurking in that family beyond a slightly ruthless nature and a bastard son.

I avoid the parlor that afternoon in favor of walking in the garden behind the house. What I truly wish to do is ride Sagittaria, but Haymitch insists riding in the park is not something ladies do alone and he no longer rides. That is surely why I accept Mr. Baxter’s invitation to ride in the park, despite how much his pompous demeanor annoys me.


	4. Chapter 4

"This is perfect, darling," Effie whispers as she toys with my hair for a moment before placing my hat on my head, like I am some sort of child. "Word will get back to Sir Robert that you were riding in the park with Mr. Cato Baxter and then he'll be hooked for sure! Perhaps he will even be in the park and see you! It is the first fine day in some time, and gentlemen need a little competition.”

“I’ve only just met Sir Robert. Why would he care?” I protest as she moves to stand behind me to inspect the bustle on my riding habit.

“Pish! Already he is asking for dances and sending flowers. Trust me, my dear. He will care, and you do not want to let this one go.”

“I do not know him at all!” I yelp as she jabs a hair pin into my scalp.

“What’s to know? He’s wealthy, handsome, charming, has no scandal to his name. He’s perfect for you! The rest will follow.”

“Perhaps,” I say and stand still while she buttons my jacket. I despise being treated like a child, but as Effie lifts tear filled eyes to me, I swallow my pride and allow her to mother me. Besides, my own mother is not here to get all teary over a ride in the park with a gentleman or the possibility of a real suitor.

“Are we ready?” Madge asks, sweeping past me towards the door to the room we have been sharing.

“Ready,” I confirm and take up gloves just as we hear the butler answer the door downstairs.

“Miss Everdeen,” Cato takes my hand and bows over it with a smile that wavers as Madge joins us, tugging her gloves onto her hands. “Countess. I did not realize we would have company, Miss Everdeen.”

The strange sparks in his eyes set me on edge. Why would Madge’s presence anger him? My skin begins to crawl and I already regret my brash acceptance of his invitation, even if it does help to secure a marriage with Sir Robert.

“The Countess is my chaperone today,” I remind him.

“Indeed. Shall we?” He turns and strides outside, leaving Madge and I to follow. Already, I feel my face pulling into a scowl.

“How solicitous of him,” Madge mutters under her breath. I snort and walk into the sunshine. I ascend the mounting stone and then yelp as rough hands assault me. Sagittaria balks, sidestepping as I cling to the reigns, struggling to reseat myself.

“Your horse seems a bit skittish, Miss Everdeen,” Cato sneers.

“She is not. You startled me in helping where you were not needed and that startled her.”

“That is what skittish means,” he says and grabs hold of her bridle. This only upsets Sagitarria more.

“Sir! Unhand my horse,” I snarl and he does so. I soothe her, stroking her neck and cooing until she settles with a snort and toss of her head. I quite agree with her but do not know how to extricate myself from this outing without being rude. Effie is still upset with me over my last run in with Mr. Marvel, insisting that I am acting more like a bitter spinster than a young woman who wishes to get married at all.

“I was simply assisting you mount your horse,” Mr. Baxter explains with a creased brow.

“No harm done,” I say through my teeth. I am attempting to smile but am sure it fails when I catch sight of Madge, hiding her laughter and safely mounted on Diablo. He is the most ornery horse in my family’s stable and yet somehow turns into a docile lamb around my friend. She has tamed the beast, and quite marvelously so. 

“This way ladies,” Cato declares and I roll my eyes, earning a choked sound of held back laughter from Madge.

“A true prince. Catch me if I swoon,” I mutter under my breath and this time Madge really does laugh. I think I even hear one of Effie’s footmen holding back laughter, and glance back to see his head bent and his shoulders shaking. Good to know my misfortunes in courtship provide such amusement. To the park we go!

“I am sorry, Katniss. I should not laugh,” Madge whispers as we move through the city towards the park. “But--”

“But he is a ridiculous, pompous ass?” Madge gasps and I lift a shoulder with indifference. “I think he might fit better on a farm.”

“Let us hope it only takes one outing to incite some manly jealousy in Sir Robert.”

“Why must we incite jealousy at all?” I grouse.

At first, it seems that riding in the park was the perfect idea. It is the largest expanse of green in the entire city. I breathe deep of the woodsy scent, the trees banishing the noxious fumes of the city and providing a breath of fresh air. They line the wide avenues and while there are any number of people out in the park today, the space is so wide that it hardly feels crowded. It is the most at home I have felt since arriving here. I relax and attempt to enjoy myself, giving Sagittaria some slack in the reins. She longs to gallop over the hills. I can feel it in the reins and the way she tenses beneath me, ready to spring.

Unfortunately, my enjoyment is short lived. Mr. Baxter’s horse is as pompous and overbearing as it’s rider. The beast continuously nips at Sagitarria’s haunches until my poor girl justifiably kicks out at the brute in defense.

“Your horse kicked mine!” Mr. Baxter complains.

“Your horse thinks Sagitarria is lunch,” I return, guiding Sagittaria as far away as possible. “The horse named Diablo is better behaved than your monster!”

“Is there a problem?” a vaguely familiar voice asks and I turn in the saddle to tell whatever misguided gentleman this is to mind his own affairs when I stop with my mouth hanging open and my eyes widen.

“You!” I shout. How is it that he always seems to appear when I am having horse related difficulties?

“Miss Everdeen,” Peeta says, inclining his head in my direction. His great big grey steady and unmoving. Sagitarria shifts, closer to Peeta and his mount, away from Cato. “I am glad to see you are able to keep out of the mud and your horse upright today.”

My cheeks burn in humiliation and Cato huffs. “You know this bastard?”

“No,” I say.

“We’ve met,” Peeta speaks for us both and tilts his head slightly at my lie before reaching down, his palm open for Sagittaria to nuzzle in a familiar manner. Peeta smiles at her and clicks his tongue. She huffs affectionately into his gloved palm, traitor that she is.

“Oh good! I see you’ve found her!” Sir Robert rides up then, his horse almost skidding to a halt as he pulls a touch too forcefully on the reigns. “Miss Everdeen! It is a matter of urgency. Your Aunt has asked us to escort you home, immediately.”

My heart leaps for a moment, immediately thinking of my father.

“Thank you Mr. Baxter, your services are no longer needed. Ladies,” Sir Robert circles us once and then begins to ride off. Madge goes with him, glancing back over her shoulder at me with concern in her eyes. What a grand chaperone she turned out to be, trading one bastard for another. 

I don’t even see the command Peeta gives his horse, but the brute turns and follows, and without my input, Sagittaria goes as well, pulling even with Peeta’s horse as Cato sputters and protests behind us that we had just started our ride and that he is perfectly capable of seeing us home.

“I apologize for our ruse,” Peeta whispers. “We feared your horse was near to revolting.”

“She would not with me riding.”

“Not even with Cato’s nag biting at her?”

I purse my lips and stare at Sir Robert’s back as he converses with Madge. He turns in his seat once to look back at us and smiles, then winks at me. My heart does that strange fluttering thing again and I wonder at how two brothers who share such uncanny similarities in features can have such vastly different personalities. Sir Robert is charming and solicitous whereas Peeta seems rude and abrupt.

“I should not be speaking to you, sir. We have not been properly introduced.”

“Perhaps not in a way that most would approve of, but sometimes necessity demands forgetting etiquette, don’t you think?”

“You did not tell me who you were.” And you caressed my ankles.

“I was more concerned with your well being.”

“Clearly demonstrated in the way you tossed me about like chattel.”

“Would you rather I loitered in the pouring rain? I told you I had urgent business--”

“So urgent that you couldn’t be bothered to dismount and assist.”

“--and yet I did not shove you on your potentially injured horse and send you on your way. I made sure you were taken care of.”

“I can take care of myself.”

“Even the most self-sufficient person requires assistance now and then. How is your father?” I whip my head to the side to stare at him and he stares back. Unwavering. “You forget I stopped at the inn in your town. Always a good source of local news.” His voice is soft in his explanation and stirs feelings I would rather forget. I can almost feel the icy rain trickling down my spine and the warmth of his fingers on my ankle.

“He is unchanged in health.”

“I am sorry to hear that. And the boots? I realise they are small consolation, but I must know. How are they?” He drops his gaze to my feet and I shift my legs. There’s no hiding that I wear a pair of fairly new riding boots. His smile at the sight of them irks me. 

“Quite comfortable. Thank you,” I manage to say and he nods, as though satisfied. 

“Delly always was quite skilled.” I think of the familiar way she spoke of him and feel my spine stiffen. Sagittaria’s gait shifts to accommodate my awkward posture and she huffs in protest, dancing two steps closer to Peeta’s horse so that our legs collide. His giant horse does not even budge, but plods along undisturbed.

“Humpf. One is always biased towards one’s sweetheart.”

“Delly is an old friend. Not a sweetheart.”

“You are quite easy with her name and she with yours.”

“Does that scandalise you, Miss Everdeen? I’ve known her since birth and she is practically a sister to me. I thought you much more robust in your sensibilities. A young woman who galivants unaccompanied over her family’s land -- in breeches no less until the age of fifteen -- hunts, sees to any number of business and farming affairs, attends to the births of new foals, whose mother and sister are both skilled healers? Surely you are not put off by a few uses of given names.”

“I am put off by gentlemen who do not reveal their true nature and seem to know far more about me than I do them.”

“I shall attempt to close my ears next time I visit your quaint town. Lest I hear anything about you.”

I ignore his sarcasm and return to something that still bothers me. “You failed to tell me who you were.”

“You already said that.”

“No last name, no direction.”

“Did I behave in a manner that would require you to need those?”

“You are a bastard and the title fits,” I hiss, aggravated with the direction of this conversation. He blinks once and then tilts his head, as though examining me like a puzzle to be solved. I squirm in the saddle at his steady gaze.

“And you, madame? Are you not a fortune hunter? I had no choice in the manner of my birth but you have a choice in your manner of matrimony.”

“That is not your concern and hardly proper--”

“Are you pursuing my brother for his fortune alone?”

“No!” I whisper, although the lie burns on my tongue. “He is many things beyond his fortune.”

“I am aware of that, but are you? Robert falls in love far too easily and has had his heart broken countless times.”

“An odd defense tactic, Mr. Mellark. I’ve never much heard of gentleman having  _ their _ hopes shattered. Do you not simply move on to the next prospect?”

“I suppose you believe that to be a realm only allowed to ladies? Broken hearts? Then how do you explain yourself, your breeches, and your rumored to be perfect aim? You move about parts of the world usually reserved for men, and if the gossips of your home are to be believed, you do so with far more grace and skill than most men.” I scowl at him and he smiles. It’s disturbing, this new expression. It flirts and teases, scandalises and taunts. He looks more like his brother in that moment and the thought is so bothersome that I shove it aside, turning from him and instead staring unseeing at the trees as we ride beneath their wide, gorgeous green bowers. Beside me, Peeta sighs deeply.

“Ah. My apologies again, Miss Everdeen. I cannot seem to control my mouth around you. And to answer your concern, I am not in the habit of providing proof of parentage when I pluck strange women from the mud. I fear it might send them all into a fit to admit that my blood parents were never married. At the very least, I would then have to endure a dozen prayers for my soul.”

I feel laughter forming in my chest at the idea of him sitting astride his great, unmovable grey, eyes lifted skyward in exasperation while a prayer circle surrounds him. Old ladies clutching and waving their bibles about. The amusement I feel annoys me.

“Perhaps you should start if you are going to make a habit of plucking strange women from the mud. We are made of stronger stuff than you give us credit for.” 

“So far, you are my only rescue of that sort.” I huff in disbelief or aggravation and Sagitarria dances again into the side of Peeta’s horse. Once again, the beast is unmoved, continuing in his path like an equine stone wall. 

“Does your horse feel anything?” I ask testily.

“Cicero cannot hear. That necessitated training him to be unresponsive to everything but my touch. An advantage on a battlefield, but perhaps not so in the park with skittish mares.”

“Sagittaria is  _ not  _ skittish and I am getting tired of brutes such yourself and Mr. Baxter suggesting otherwise.” Peeta’s eyes narrow at me, his eyes flashing in true anger this time. I wonder if it is at being lumped together with Mr. Baxter. I have insulted him repeatedly and yet just as he confessed, I cannot seem to stop.

“I was not speaking of your horse,” he whispers. I gasp at that, but before I can dig up a retort, Sir Robert is there.

“Another lap about the park? The enchanting Mr. Baxter has left and so I believe we may continue unbothered.”

“Yes. That would be lovely, Sir Robert,” I turn to him with a relieved smile, ignoring Peeta and maneuvering Sagittaria so that Madge will have to deal with the bastard this time. I throw her an apologetic look and settle in next to Sir Robert. “It is such a lovely day, I hate to return indoors so soon.”

“You live mainly in the country, yes?” Sir Robert asks and I nod. “I fear I would be ghastly bored if I could not live in the city.”

Behind me, Madge laughs, the sound clear and beautiful and full. The first genuine laugh not brought about by me that I have heard from her since we left Everdeen. I turn to stare at her, my cheeks heating as I catch Peeta’s eyes. He smirks at me and my mind churns with awful thoughts of violence that I quickly suppress. I feel feverish and furious, unable to explain my reaction to this man. Especially when one with much more polished manners and much more desirable credentials as a future husband is also present. 

I turn my full attention to Sir Robert then. After all, he is the one courting me. Not Peeta.


	5. Chapter 5

I waste half a day pacing the study. I pull down one book to read and discard it when I can advance no further than a page without having to return to read again. Still, my mind absorbs nothing. I pace some more. I begin letters that I tear to shreds and throw away to burn later. I am caught in thoughts and nearly scream when one of the maids knocks on the door.

“Yes!”

“Sorry, Miss Everdeen. Mrs. Abernathy wishes me to tell you that you’ve guests in the parlor.”

“Guests?” I ask and rub my temples, hoping that it is not Sir Robert or his brother. 

More than a full week of Sir Robert acting as the ideal suitor has come and gone. He is mostly attentive, and very flirtatious when no one else can hear, if he is a bit of a shallow fop. He comes to call daily, escorts myself and Madge to salons on herbal gardening and farming. A lecture on the science of weather. Rides in the park. Even an outing to the market where he purchased those plums he spoke of on our first meeting. Yet with all the time we have spent in one another’s presence, the deepest conversation we have yet had centered on horses. 

He was looking to purchase a few and wondered if I had any advice. While I admit that I am rather glad that Sir Robert seems to respect my opinion, I know nothing of who he is. Or perhaps this dandy is exactly who he is. I cannot help but think of his comment about how he’d be ghastly bored living in the country and wondering if perhaps this is a mistake. I cannot fathom a life in the city. It has been two days since we were able to ride in the park and I am close to bursting with the need to be out of doors.

That difference in our preferred living style is slight compared to the primary obstacle to his courtship of me, however. While Madge might look the other way should Sir Robert attempt to hold my hand longer than strictly necessary or even steal a kiss, mainly because she understands my need for haste, my dear friend is not the only chaperone we have been saddled with.

Always Sir Robert brings his brother with him, a judgmental thorn in my side who counters me at every turn and seems to serve as an ice block that cools any ardor Sir Robert might feel for me. I think Peeta knows my need for haste, given Father’s condition, and plans to thwart me long enough that I will need to shift my interest elsewhere. I have not the patience to deal with scouting out and pursuing another suitor. I am quite content with the one that I have. 

Furthermore, I no longer even have any other suitors. Sir Robert’s vague interest seems to have frightened off every other suitor, although Effie claims it is the fault of my surly nature that they’ve all capitulated. Still, she is thrilled with the news Haymitch brings home from gentleman’s clubs as well as the gossip in the society pages. All of it points to the belief that Sir Robert will propose to a Miss Everdeen of Southeastern Panem before the end of the month. I am not certain I can wait that long, but I am certain that I cannot stand to repeat the entire process of cultivating a gentleman’s interest. That first month of work was abominable. Unbearable.

“Who is it?” I ask Lydia, the maid, still hoping she does not give the answer that I suspect

“The two brothers, Miss. With the name Mellark. Fine looking gentlemen they are, although I’d wager the younger is a cad. Were I allowed to wager. Which I don’t. Mistress forbids such rude past times amongst the servants.”

I can’t help myself. I laugh at the maid’s flustered speech and smile at her as I move towards the door, my aggravation at the persistent Peeta fading as an idea takes form in my mind.

“Your secret is safe with me. If you could perhaps put pepper into the tea of the younger brother, however, I would appreciate it greatly.”

“Oh miss. I wouldn’t dare.” She says but then she winks at me and hurries back towards the kitchens.

Lifting my head high and pasting a smile on my face, I enter the parlor. Sir Robert springs to his feet to greet me. Peeta rises much slower, but at least he can be bothered to rise, unlike that day in the rain when he couldn't be bothered to dismount. Perhaps he feared getting mud on his precious boots, no doubt made by his precious Delly. 

I do not say it this time. I said it two days ago when Effie was out shopping and I was forced to entertain the two gentlemen alone until Madge could join us, and forgetting that Sir Robert might not know of my mortifying first meeting with his brother, I made my unthinking quip. My acerbic comment prompted the telling of the humiliating tale, although Peeta had enough manners to leave out his fondling of my legs. Sir Robert seemed more confused than angered or displeased at the story.

Now, however, I at least have Effie and Madge to serve as a buffer. I greet the gentlemen and take my seat. Eagerly awaiting the tea tray and clenching my hands together to keep them from shaking and giving myself away. 

Sir Robert comments on the weather and the masquerade tomorrow night. Effie tells the men that we are expecting a visit from the dressmakers first thing in the morning.

“And here is the tea! Thank you, Lydia.”

“Ma’am,” the maid curtsies and glances at her tray then at the two men. She is not very subtle as she turns it awkwardly to face a certain way in front of me, although the small pile of black flakes I see at the bottom of one cup alerts me to her plan.

“I will serve, Aunt Effie,” I say with a sweet smile and Effie changes topics to discuss how I am such a capable hostess and quite accomplished at running a household and managing great wealth, as though she were advertising a horse or an accountant rather than a person. I ignore her useless chatter and instead, I pour the tea. 

I drop two lumps of sugar in Sir Robert’s cup, one each for Effie, Madge, and myself... and none for Peeta. It would perhaps help if I could use sugar to disguise the pepper, but the daft man never takes sugar in his tea. Were I to feign forgetfulness and drop it in anyways, he’d likely ask me for an entirely new cup and that will not do.

Oh well, he deserves to feel the bite of my frustration since he is the cause of it.

“Thank you, Miss Everdeen,” Peeta murmurs as I hand him his tea, his voice soft and warm. I shiver and hand Sir Robert his cup. He takes a first sip and continues speaking with Aunt Effie. Hm. Not exactly the actions of a man smitten in love. Perhaps he is losing interest or perhaps his brother pours poison against me into his ear. I shall need to double my efforts, I think.

Although that thought has my eyes flicking to Peeta as I hand Effie then Madge their cups as well, remembering what he said about Sir Robert so easily falling in love. Is the bastard laughing at me because I am the one woman who cannot seem to win his brother’s open heart? 

He’s staring at me, not looking away as he lifts his cup to his lips. He drinks. For one second, his eyes widen and I think I see the tears caused by the spice burning his throat form on the rims of his eyes. I lift my own tea to my lips to hide my triumphant smile as his oblivious brother talks on.

And then Peeta takes another deep drink, eyes never leaving mine.

I have to hide my astonished squeak. He turns to Effie during a lull in conversation. “Madame Abernathy, the tea today is quite excellent. Please extend my deep thanks to your staff. Such a unique bouquet.”

“Oh! You are quite welcome, my dear! I did not realize there was anything different about it!” Aunt Effie effuses, examining her own tea. She seems perturbed, although part of that is the fact that she has been forced to entertain a bastard in her parlor quite a lot more than she would prefer -- which is never. She has already told me that Sir Robert’s great flaw appears to be his tolerance for his brother.

“Born into sin, forever bound to sin,” she had proclaimed with a cluck of her tongue. But she wouldn’t dare insult Sir Robert by refusing to entertain them both or by openly insulting Peeta to his face.

I shift nervously in my seat as Sir Robert and Effie resume their conversation. Madge interjects on occasion, all of them unaware of the silent battle being waged across Aunt Effie’s gorgeously carved mahogany parlor table. Peeta catches my eye again as he lifts his tea cup to his lips and drinks.

And drinks. I begin to sweat as he drains the cup and sets it down between us.

“Might I have another cup? Exactly the same, Miss Everdeen.”

“So soon?” Sir Robert asks with a slight laugh. “Good lord, man.”

“I am thirsty today,” Peeta says simply. My legs move as if bidden by his voice, clenching tight beneath my skirts as frissons of memory caress up beneath layers of fabric. Will I never forget my humiliation in front of him?

And worse, I am forced to pour him more tea. 

My cheeks burn with anger at being outmaneuvered this time. The bastard knows I cannot make it exactly the same. To do so, I would reveal my perfidy. So I pour a plain cup with a dash of cream, no sugar, and hand it over with a smile. He drinks and then smiles back. “That hits the spot indeed. Won’t you drink yours, Miss Everdeen?”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

“And he drank the entire cup?” Madge asks, tears of laughter in her eyes as I brush my hair.

“And then asked for another!”

“So that’s what he meant!  _ Exactly the same, Miss Everdeen _ ,” she mimics Peeta’s deep voice through her laughter and I cannot help but join her in amusement. Only for a moment before I sober.

“I am at a loss! Sir Robert seems so...detached. True he is attentive and brings flowers every day and...oh I do not know, Madge! I know so little of romance and this is not at all as I expected. And yet... his brother seems to think Sir Robert is set on courting me. A with Peeta, someone Sir Robert clearly trusts implicitly, determined to prevent us from marrying... How am I to win this game? Against an opponent who will swallow an entire cup of tea laced with pepper and then ask for more with a smile on his face?” I laugh. “Such a man is a most formidable opponent.”

I fall silent and set aside the brush. Uncertain where to go or what to do next. 

“Or he could be a great ally. He protects his brother as you would protect Prim, I think. That is quite admirable. Perhaps not now, but later you will be able to convince him of your sincere regard for his brother?” She phrases it as a question that I have no way of answering. I settled on pursuing Sir Robert and yet… I do not know. I think of home. Of my mother and father and how she would light up brighter than a chandelier when my father would enter the room.

I glance briefly into the mirror at the face that glances back. The high color in my cheeks and the brightness of my eyes. I am unused to playing such games and yet something about them has made me almost...attractive.

“Perhaps,” I say but then I frown. Staring down at the letter from Prim that arrived today as well as the one from Thom, my frown deepens. Both letters full of optimism. Too much optimism. “Something is wrong at home, Madge. I can sense it between their words but I have no proof. I cannot stay here much longer.”

She pats the bed and I scurry over to join her. She reaches out and clasps my hand in hers.

“Then perhaps you need a way to escalate Sir Robert’s courtship. He does seem taken with you, Katniss.”

“And yet he hesitates.”

“Well, tomorrow is the masquerade. Perhaps you could speed things along there. I have never been to one, but I have heard stories.”

“What stories?” 

Madge smiles and lifts one shoulder. “Romance, stolen kisses, inhibitions forgotten or discarded with the safety of supposed anonymity, although I also hear that everyone knows exactly who you are at these things, simply pretends they don’t.”

“Sounds absolutely sinful,” I purr. “Hopefully the food will be worth the praise as well.”

We laugh at this and then settle into bed. Not for the first time, I think on the path I have chosen and the future laid out before me as Sir Robert’s wife.

“What is it like?” I whisper into the dark and Madge shifts on her side of the bed to face me.

“What is what like?”

“Being...married,” I say, unable to voice my real question.

“You mean laying with a man,” she responds softly.

“Yes, I mean that,” I whisper. Madge takes a deep breath and I turn away, embarrassed. “I am sorry, I should not have asked.”

“No. Katniss, you should ask. I wish that I had been able to ask my mother before I married the earl, although I doubt she would have given me the sort of answer I needed. Likely she would have said the same thing as the matron who served as one of my chaperones. Bite your lip and hold onto the sheets while you let him do as he pleases. The less you resist, the faster it will be over, she told me.” 

“That sounds awful.” I gnaw on my own lips as guilty tears prick at my eyes. I think of how she was packed away to live with relatives after her parents died and her home was destroyed. How they saw to it that the marriage contract her parents had decided on was carried out. How I did not see my friend again for five years. Not even for her wedding. Even if I hadn’t still been recovering, lowly Miss Katniss Everdeen did not merit an invitation to such a high born affair. The granddaughter of a Duke marries an earl. Her parents had arranged the marriage shortly after the earl’s first wife passed. They themselves died before the ink was dry on the contract. 

“Katniss? Is it terrible that sometimes I resent them? Both for dying and for arranging the marriage in the first place? Perhaps I could have changed their minds if they had lived or...”

I roll over to face her and my tears match hers. She takes another deep breath and releases it.

“But then I would not have Maysilee. I never know how to feel about my time married to the earl. The women in the servants quarters would talk, when they thought I could not hear. They spoke of lovers with gentle lips and hands that could excite. Sometimes I envied them, although their lives were hard in so many other ways. But they knew and spoke of a pleasure I could never hope to experience while married to the earl. They spoke of love and desire. The first time the earl...took me, it hurt a great deal. I cried the night away and in the morning, the maid who helped me bathe told me that it was normal for the first time to hurt and that it might become pleasurable eventually. Or it might not. She said it so callously, as though it mattered not either way.”

“Did it…” I cannot finish the question and Madge shuts her eyes and lips tight, looking pained as she shakes her head.

“It never stopped hurting. Sometimes it was merely uncomfortable, at least.”

“Oh Madge,” I whisper and pull her into my embrace. 

“Do not worry so over me. It never grew to be pleasurable with the earl but...after he died, I… I did something stupid.”

“What did you do?” I wait for a response and whisper encouragement when none comes. “You can tell me, you know.”

“I had an affaire with someone.” I gasp quietly and feel my own body heating, astonished at my friend’s secret. How brazen of her, I think as she continues to speak. 

“Only the once! But heaven forgive me, it was not easy to turn away even after only the one time. Perhaps it was a product of so many years in a cold marriage bed, but that one night… Katniss the only word I can think to use to describe it is rapture.”

“Rapture,” I whisper and curl into myself. “So then it can be pleasurable.”

“Mmm, I think only with the right partner, though. Someone who would care for your desires. Someone who could find pleasure in pleasing you. I want you to find the rapture and the joy with the man you marry, Katniss. And perhaps that is Sir Robert. Perhaps it is not.”

“With Sir Robert?” I ask and shake my head. “He is charming and handsome. All that I should want in a husband.” And yet I know nothing of kisses or raptures. How could I? “I begin to wonder if I am capable of such a love at all. My mind does not seem disposed to think kindly of anyone, let alone in such an intimate manner.”

“Of course you are capable,” Madge insists. “You were born of one such love.”

We share a look and I laugh, drawing her into mirth as well. My parents are indeed a love match. Even my mother admitted as much, but my father has always seemed drawn to her, to touch her or gift her with kisses. They were so free and open with their affection that no one seeing them could doubt their love.

“How funny is it that I might marry the son of the man she rejected so long ago?”

“I would be afraid to meet the ruthless father.”

“Oh I am afraid of that,” I admit and Madge snorts.

“You fear nothing, Katniss. You are the bravest person I know.” Her voice has grown sleepy and before I can ask what she means by that, a soft snore escapes her.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

“For you,” Sir Robert says with a charming smile as he hands me a large bouquet of pink roses.

“Thank you,” I say with a smile, setting them aside before the scent overpowers.

“Their color made me think of you.”

“Did it?” I ask. Effie will have a fit if she finds out what I am about to do, so I must hurry through before I lose my courage.

“What did you wish to speak with me about this morning? I thought you had an appointment with a dressmaker for tonight?”

“In an hour, I believe.” Sir Robert nods as we assume a sedate pace down the garden pathways. 

“Our time is limited then. We must make the most of it.” He smiles slightly at me and I nod.

“Yes. Yes, we must. Sir Robert, I must confess that I may have misled you.”

“Oh?”

“My father is quite ill and his condition may never improve. It has left me, my mother, and my sister…”

“Vulnerable,” he suggests and I nod, relieved that he understands. “So you rush to Capitol in search of a husband.”

“Yes,” I say, further relieved that he knows and has not yet retreated, nor seems to be judging me. “How did you know?”

“My dear brother has hinted as much. Now it is my turn to confess, Miss Everdeen. I am not a wealthy man.”

“Are you not?” I gaze quizzically at his attire.

“You must understand, my father would never allow one of us to appear in public attired as or conduct ourselves as anything less than a firstborn son of a marquis, no matter how far down the line of succession we were born.”

“Oh,” I say, confused at this turn of events. I had thought Aunt Effie said the Marquis had also settled a fortune on all of his sons. And why would Peeta not use this as ammunition against my quest? “Then you are poor?”

“At the moment, yes. Everything I own currently belongs in truth to my father. However, this can still work for us both.” I pause and wait for him to elaborate. He claps his hands together and smiles at me. “Miss Everdeen. I find your honesty refreshing. Allow me to return the favor. My father settled a generous fortune on all of his sons, with the caveat that this fortune would not become ours until we were married. He meant it as an incentive to continue the line and not waste our lives, I think.”

“Ah,” I say and turn to walk down the pathway again. Fingers close around mine and turn me back to face him. He sinks to one knee and I can hear Aunt Effie screeching inside the house. I wish I felt like screeching too.

“I cannot ignore the way fate has seemed to bring us together, Miss Everdeen. I was enchanted from the first by your beauty and wit, but our needs match. Alone, we are but two poor souls. Together, we will be extraordinary. I am aware that you perhaps are not in love with me, but I believe you feel some affection at least. Perhaps love will follow in time. I’ve not been very lucky in love. Perhaps this method will be more successful. I sense that this -- you and I -- might be exactly what I need. Will you honour me with your hand in marriage?”

“I…” the words stick in my throat and his eager smile falters. What is wrong with me? This is precisely what I wanted. Honesty and a partnership. A proposal from a wealthy man of good character. If he is speaking the truth about his fortunes then I will have the funds to see to the needs of my entire family should the worst happen to my father. My mother, Prim, Madge and Maysilee all secure and provided for. I would have enough to launch Prim into society properly, to attract the right sort of suitors for her. We would still need a home, should my father pass, but perhaps I can use my half of the auction funds from Everdeen to purchase a small farm. I force out the word in a hasty breath before I can think on it too much. “Yes!”

He grins and rises then presses his lips to the backs of my hands. 

“Miss Everdeen, I am afraid I do not have a ring, but any ring I could buy you now would seem cheap and pale in comparison to your beauty.” I smile at his flattery, the expression feels weak even to me. “As soon as I am able, whatever your heart desires shall be yours.”

He lifts my left hand and smiles at the bare finger. “I do not need a ring. Likely it would get lost or destroyed while I am working at home.”

“Working?” he asks. Now it is my turn for my smile to falter. “No matter. We can discuss all of this after the masquerade tonight. Then we shall announce the engagement in the papers and be married as soon as possible. Would that suit you?”

“I have not met your family yet,” I say. In truth, what does it matter? Clearly Sir Robert does not need their approval to select a bride.

“Well I do not wish to make you late for your appointment with the dressmaker. I am constantly in trouble for tardiness as it is. Meeting my family shall also have to wait until after the masquerade. I shall speak to Mother about perhaps hosting a dinner in a few days to introduce you to them.” He kisses my hands again and I think I hear Effie fainting inside. “Do not forget, the first dance tonight belongs to me.”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

“Engaged!” Effie squeals as Cinna carefully removes a gown from it’s box. Dark reds and grays melt together in the light, the way bird feathers do when spun in sunlight. “I knew it! I knew he was taken with you! Curse that ingrate brother of his for delaying it so long!”

“It’s only been a week, Aunt Effie. Peeta did not delay it that long,” I say, the words lost under layers of fabric as I am stripped down and redressed, piece by piece. Effie talks on as Cinna works and I dig my nails into my palms, hoping the pain will prevent the strange hollow feeling in my chest. I meet Madge’s eyes in the mirror as she sits waiting her turn. There’s something sad in her gaze and she gives me one encouraging nod as Cinna whispers soft instructions and needles flash to complete the final adjustments to my gown. I am so lost in thought that I don’t even realize we’re done until Effie gasps.

“Katniss! My darling you are stunning!” I turn to look in the mirror and tilt my head to examine the strange neckline of the gown. Rather than the off the shoulder with puffed sleeves that are the current rage, my left arm is encased in snug fabric from high on my shoulder down to my wrist. Covering my scars completely. The dress leaves my right arm entirely bare. I feel...bold and powerful in this gown.

“I have shown your maid Lydia how to trace designs on your right arm with this pencil,” she lifts a shimmering silver stick and I wonder if it is the same makeup she wears on her own eyes. “Unless you get it wet, it should not smudge once it has dried on your skin. Now turn and see if you like it.”

I stare into the mirrors at my reflection as I spin. “It’s...I look...radiant.”

“You do indeed,” Cinna says with a soft smile and then retrieves gauzy fabric of the same shade as the dress and a mask. It’s a gleaming ivory, painted with red and silver, deep shades of charcoal. Feathers attached to one side drape down and tickle my bare right shoulder as she affixes the mask. Then drapes the gauze over my head as a sort of cowl, disguising my hair. “There. Sometimes we feel freer when hidden from view.”

I barely hear her whispered words with Effie still talking. Has she taken a breath since I returned inside from the gardens? I do not know.

But as I stare at Cinna’s encouraging smile and think of Madge’s words last night, I find my resolve. I have never kissed a man, and what better time to do so than tonight. 

As Cinna helps me undress, I formulate my plan. While Madge tries on her lovely lavender and dark blue gown, I pen a note telling Sir Robert how to find me and hand it to Lydia to see it delivered. I will know which is Sir Robert after the first dance. The plan is simple after that. 

Kiss him and see if there is any rapture to be found in his lips.


	6. Chapter 6

If I found some of the townhomes and wealthy mansions we have visited in the past month gaudy, the Capitol estate of the Duke and Duchess of Cashmere qualifies as obscene. Not even located in the city itself, it takes near an hour simply to reach it. When we do, I have to remind myself not to gawk.

The lane, lit with a long queue of torches, seems to extend past the horizon. They pass the carriage windows in streaks of orange and short bursts of heat before we reach the next. The wheels churn on the rocks and I contort myself to see the house without leaning out the window. It rises up into the evening sky, more palace than house, set against magnificent hues of pink, red, vibrant orange, purple, and deep blue.

“It’s beautiful,” Madge breathes, having leaned across my body to peer out the window as well.

“Of course it is. Cashmere would not settle for anything less than spectacular and the Good Lord Himself wouldn’t dare provide less than a spectacular sunset to grace her affairs,” Effie announces and Haymitch grunts from beneath his tipped forward hat. He hasn’t moved since we left, making me wonder if perhaps he were napping, but his response suggests that he is wide awake. Effie catches on to this and swats his arm with her fan. “Haymitch! It is a masquerade. Put on your mask!”

Madge leans back in her seat and smiles at me, adjusting her own mask, which is already perfect anyways. The carriage jostles slightly and the loud clacking of hooves followed by the bone jarring rattling alerts us that we have reached stone. The house embraces us, a giant U shaped around a cobblestone courtyard. Almost every window shines, ablaze. I cannot imagine the expense of candles to light this place.

We have time to wait, already a long queue of arriving carriages has formed. When it is our turn, a footman in dark blue livery opens the door, and bows low enough for us to see the purple bow tying back his long hair before assisting all of us from the carriage. Haymitch leads us up the stairs, Madge laces her arm with mine and we clasp hands. I can tell from the way she looks around, as I am, that even she has never seen such wealth. 

I scramble with mental hierarchy to figure out where Lord Mellark, Marquis de Vale would be placed in wealth and privilege, somewhere between a duke and an earl, I believe. Such things were unimportant to my parents since we had so few out of the area visitors to Everdeen, let alone anyone with a title besides Madge’s family. Unlike most young girls my age, I did not have a ranking list of the peerage drilled into my brain. My parents never cared and therefore neither did I. Effie has given me at least half a dozen lectures on it, yet all I can now remember is a vague buzzing noise in my brain, like a persistent fly. Now it seems a disadvantage that I did not pay closer attention.

If I am right in my guess at rankings, that means Sir Robert is used to more wealth and fine things than Madge, although perhaps not this much. I hope not, at least. As we climb a grand set of stairs lined with more torches, it is yet one more reminder of all the things I do not know about Sir Robert or the sort of life I will lead as his wife. I formed plans for Everdeen and failed to consider that, if Sir Robert is expected to present himself and act as though he is first in line for the title, as his wife, I will be expected to act as a future Marchioness. I have no idea how to behave around such wealth and nobility.

Once, I overturned a log deep in the woods, uncovering a writhing pile of worms. At the time, I had been happy to see them, signs of growth and the vitality of nature in the soil. Now I feel as though they have taken residence in my stomach and they are most unwanted.

What have I done? I’ve engaged myself to a stranger. I panicked when I agreed to his proposal, afraid that if I rejected him, another such proposal might never come my way. I do not have time to seek out another unless I decide to forsake Everdeen to the control of our steward, sever my thoughts and care from my home and her people. No, I cannot do that, not while my father still breathes and the responsibility for the land and people rests with my family. I must repair the damage done in my impulsive reaction and learn exactly who my betrothed is, ensure that I will not be expected to neglect Everdeen simply because I choose to paste the name Mellark over the one I was born with. 

Now, I tell myself not to panic as Effie jabs her fan into my side, prompting me to stand straight as Haymitch hands over our invitation to a gentleman in a uniform that matches the footman’s only with more braiding on the jacket, and we are announced. Announced at a masquerade, how ridiculous. Tis no wonder everyone knows who everyone else is here. 

We glide regally down another set of stairs into a wide, marble and gilded foyer. The ceiling soars up to a magnificent painted ceiling. We descend down to a cloud grey marble floor and are almost immediately swallowed into the crowd.

“Now girls,” Effie snares my hand and reminds us one more time. “If we are separated, you two stay together. We will meet here at the end of the evening.”

And then we are separated, the crowd deftly dividing us into pairs as I cling to Madge and we are swept along.

“Shall we find the food or Sir Robert first?” Madge asks.

“A drink!” I gasp as a hand caresses over my backside and I jump forward. I whirl around to yell at the man who accosted me only to find no one I can easily accuse. Whoever touched me has already disappeared into the crowd. So then that is what Madge meant about inhibitions being discarded or forgotten. “Something to drink.”

We search for the refreshments and finally find them, gulping down a clear, fizzy wine. We ogle the spread of treats to eat and decide on a few we will need to try later. There are so many beautiful gowns around us, and we spend some time admiring several. Whispers seem to follow us and I wonder at their cause until I ask and Madge pulls me towards the dancefloor as we hear the orchestra tuning their instruments.

“It’s your gown. They are all wondering who you are and talking about your gown, Katniss. No one will be able to forget you tonight.”

“We were announced.”

“No one paid attention to that,” she waves it off as insignificant.

I glance down at my gown, searching for a reason it might attract attention. Perhaps the tones of the dress are darker than the pale colours that seem to be the fashion. I am not the only one here dressed in dark shades; however, I am the only one wearing a single sleeve. The silver painted designs curling over my bare arm adds a touch of almost scandal. I’ve never had so much skin on display and suddenly feel quite out of sorts. Apparently I am doomed to continue making poor decisions this week. I take another drink of the wine and let the bubbles carry away some of my thoughts.

We stand on our toes as couples line up for the first dance, eyes scanning the crowds for a familiar profile or gleaming blonde curls.

“I do not see him,” Madge says, confusion in her voice.

“Nor I.” The worms have discovered a feast in my stomach as the music begins and with a few cheers, so does the dancing. The Duchess wisely chose to begin the evening with a lively tune and while it appears to be a great deal of fun, my promised partner is absent.

“He must be here somewhere,” Madge insists, with a squeeze of my hand. “We will wait near the floor and he will find us. That is why you sent him the note describing your mask and gown.”

Halfway through the first dance, we’re approached by a gentleman in a blue and silver mask, dark copper toned hair and sea green eyes. He asks for the next dance and I refuse, insisting that it is already spoken for. Another man asks Madge for a dance and she refuses as well.

“You should dance,” I tell her once we have reached the third with several more invitations to dance and still no sign of Sir Robert.

“I won’t leave you alone.”

When the first gentleman returns during the fourth dance to request Madge partner him for the next song, however, we have run out of excuses. “Surely you are not still going to claim you are spoken for? You have not moved a step!”

Madge accepts his invitation with a concerned glance back at me and I motion for her to go and to have fun. As soon as her attention is claimed by the dance, I allow my smile to vanish. I glance up towards the grand staircase and see several late guests wander in, although the servant who announced guests at the start appears to have ceased his duties.

That is it, I tell myself with a confident nod. Sir Robert is late, as usual, and I have missed his arrival or perhaps he has not yet arrived at all. I need only wait a few more songs.

After the fifth, the orchestra takes a short break. Madge returns and we test a few of the treats, although we do not linger for long. The crowd is near impossible to navigate and I am concerned that Sir Robert will not be able to find me at all. 

Another set and I am tired of the whispers following me, of being asked to dance by several gentlemen but not the one I want. Madge is claimed for dance after dance, and I cannot seem to find my family. It is more humiliating than being stuck in the mud and needing Peeta’s assistance. I turn back to the tables of food for solace, then away when I see how crowded they’ve grown. Just as the orchestra begins the third set of dances, I spot him.

A head of blonde hair standing perfectly still in the sea of people moving around him. He calmly surveys the dancers, as though looking for someone. I do not know how he managed on such short notice, but his attire matches mine. Dressed in a dark grey coat and vest, ivory trousers, shirt and cravat. His mask, painted deep hues of red much like the ones adorning my mask, covers almost the entirety of the left side of his face, but only down to the cheekbone on the right. The asymmetry mimics my dress and I wonder if he somehow planned that. Did Effie or Cinna speak to him in advance? I shake my head, gather my ire and my skirts, and charge towards him. Effie insisted I bring the matching lace fan Cinna made for this gown and now I am happy to have it as I wield it as a weapon of irritation.

_ Thwack!  _ Into his chest. His head snaps to look down at me. I do not even attempt to disguise my annoyance.

“You are horribly late.” 

He releases a soft puff of laughter, his smile fleeting but warm. He then sobers, taking my hand holding the fan in his and bowing low over it, the motion slow and deliberate.

“A thousand apologies for keeping you waiting, Miss Everdeen. There was a bit more traffic than I expected to encounter.”

“Will you be late to your own wedding then? Your funeral?”

“Hopefully not the first, and could you fault me for the latter?”

I laugh a little at this. His dry tone is not one I am used to him using. I rather like it on him. Laughter makes forgiveness easier, but not assured.

“You owe me a dance, sir. Perhaps several for keeping me waiting so long.”

“Ah...the floor looks quite crowded. Perhaps later?” I ignore disappointment as he gestures back towards the food tables. “A refreshment instead? It is quite warm in here.”

He extends his arm and I take it, settling into a careful walk through the crowds. It takes some time, avoiding merry people and those who have already managed to imbibe a little too much. Sir Robert speaks not a word, not even when he steps back, fingers lightly grasping my elbow to maneuver through tight spots with me in the lead. His fingers swipe gently over my bare skin and then are gone, once more replaced with his arm, just in time to steady me as I have to halt abruptly for a passing lady too preoccupied with her dessert to notice us.

I catch Madge’s eyes then and her mouth rounds out for a second then turns to a smile as she spots my companion. She waves once, with excitement before the gentleman she is with steps between us and claims her attention again. She laughs at whatever he says, her cheeks pinkening. I am happy to see my friend enjoying herself and glance up at the man beside me, hopeful once more that the evening will be fruitful for me as well.

He secures two glasses for us and hands me one with another slight bow.

“I am glad you are here, if a trifle late,” I say, uncertain how to breach the silence.

“As am I.” He leans close then, to whisper in my ear. “In truth I am surprised you bothered to wait. Half the gentlemen here are mesmerised by you and those who are not are clearly foxed.”

“And which half are you?” I ask, warmth blooming in my chest at the compliment.

“I’ve not had anything to drink yet,” he murmurs. My pulse flutters madly at his words and the heat of his breath on my ear. “I am thankful no one ran off with you before I could make it here.”

I have to shake my head to free my senses of the thrill, and hide my smile behind my wine. “Flattery will not save you from my annoyance. I still expect that dance.”

“Normally I would dance, except I become clumsy after the reel.”

“You’ve not even danced one, how could you become clumsy?”

“It is a rare talent and requires a great deal of practice.” 

Once more, I find myself laughing. Relieved and wondering if perhaps I should talk him into wearing a mask and banishing his brother for the next few months if this open and witty man is who he truly is when unguarded. Peculiar that society’s masks hide more of our true selves than a physical mask.

I have so many questions, but before I can even ask one, his gaze is drawn away from me to a girl with lustrous red hair. She can be no more than sixteen, the same age as Prim, and hides on the fringes of the crowd. She holds her lips tight together and glances about the room. She produces a small mirror from the pockets of her gown and releases her lips. They are stained bright red and she gasps, tears trickle down her face from behind her mask. She grabs a glass of wine off the table near her and moves to drink, licking her lips. When she once more checks her face and nothing has changed, I understand her dilemma and move towards her.

Shielding her body from view of the crowds, I take the wine from her. “What happened, darling?”

“The punch! The red punch! My mother is going to be furious!” Panic makes her talkative as she spills half her life story. “She says my red hair is a mark against me. That only ladies of a certain nature have red hair or red lips. And now I’ve both! It is my first ball!”

“Hush. It will be alright. We shall find your mother and explain.”

“That won’t work!” She wails and it is then that I notice her teeth are stained as well. Sir Robert excuses himself. I send an annoyed glance his way before focusing on the torrent of words spilling from the poor girl’s mouth. She hardly takes a breath, leaving me no room to comfort her as she babbles on about all the ways she has already disappointed her dear mother. I have half a mind to find the woman and lecture her in the hall. “She told me not to drink the red punch. I might spill it and stain my dress and...and--”

“Here.” His hand brushes my arm and I glance down to see a glass of the red punch. My hands move to accept it of their own volition. When my eyes jump up to his face, he’s already drinking from his own glass.

“Sir! No!” The girl cries and he smacks his lips in satisfaction.

“That is quite delicious. Hm, and now we shall start a new trend.” He turns away from us and speaks to the closest passer by. “Good sir! You must try the red punch!” 

He begins to tell everyone who will listen that they  _ must _ try the punch, or that the wine appears to be running thin but there is still the excellent red punch, any number of extortions given with smiles and a joke or two, his mouth not yet stained enough to reveal the danger in drinking it to everyone he encourages.

The girl gasps as several people begin to brave the red punch. Glasses are fetched for ladies who await refreshment. Matrons hand them to their young charges.

“Miss Everdeen,” he lifts his glass to mine and a wide smile spreads across my face before I take a healthy swallow as he does the same. In an astonishingly short amount of time, half the guests have red stained mouths and our new friend has a dance partner with lips that now match hers and who pulls her towards the floor with a smile on her face. 

We watch her for a moment and I feel an odd sort of pride as she says something that has her partner laughing before he twirls her. I glance up at the man beside me, astonished at his handling of the situation. It was not the behaviour I would expect of the shallow fop concerned mainly with his dress, the latest gossip, or the status of his stables that I thought myself engaged to. It hints at someone with more substance, more care for the people he shares this world with, and even in our current silence, I feel more comfortable with him than ever before.

“May I ask you something?”

“Anything,” he says.

“I know so little about you.” His eyes meet mine and for one second, I am the one mesmerised. His eyes seem a deep blue in the shadows created by the mask. Dark and wonderful.

“We are wearing masks. You are not meant to know a thing about me.”

“I think I might like to change that. Do you know of a place in this monstrous palace where we might talk easier?”

He seems to hesitate then looks over the crowd for a moment. Setting both our glasses aside, he takes my hand in his and leads me through the crowd. Once again it is slow going. For one moment, I think he is perhaps leading me towards the gardens, a veritable den of wickedness and sin at these balls, if Aunt Effie is to be believed. He has misconstrued my intentions! 

I begin to panic as I realise that yes, I had planned on kissing him tonight, but now that I am faced with the possibility, I am mortified. Or perhaps terrified. I do not know what I am thinking except that I wish to talk more and then decide if I even want to kiss him. That is the courtship I should have pursued, I realise now. Oh how my father would be disappointed in my headstrong, stubborn pursuit of matrimony first and trust later.

Sir Robert turns away from the doors leading out to the gardens and instead leads me through a tall arched doorway and into a long hall that seems to span an entire arm of the house. Tapers line the walls on both sides and windows framed in heavy drapes show the black night outside. A handful of guests wander up and down the checkered floor. Within a few steps, the noise from the ball lowers considerably. Only the sounds of shoes on marble and whispered conversations, a sprinkling of laughter float on the air. 

“Oh,” I breathe in relief. This is perfect. It is quiet enough that we might converse, empty enough that we shan’t be overheard, but contains enough witnesses that a wise person would not try anything untoward. He slows his step and I notice that one foot seems to drag a little. “Did you injure yourself?”

“Nothing serious,” he explains and then releases my hand, setting me free to walk.

“But perhaps aggravated by dancing. You could have simply said that instead of making excuses,” I say with a smile and he seems to be examining me. “I was beginning to think you did not want to dance with me at all.”

“I would dance a hundred dances with a broken leg were that the only way to make you happy.” I laugh nervously at his flattery, although this is closer to the Robert I am familiar with. How horrid. To have a husband who flatters and compliments at every turn. But will he flatter and flirt with every other lovely lady of his acquaintance? Or me and me alone?

The question disturbs me as his blue eyes follow me down the hall, his footsteps slow and steady behind me. Deliberate and methodical.

“What is this room, then?”

“Portrait gallery,” he explains as we reach the first painting and I make a noise of understanding. “I believe the last time I was forced to sit in conversation with the Duke, he explained that these span... thirteen generations?”

“Thirteen?” I ask, glancing back at him with a quirk of my lips.

“I am guessing. I honestly don’t remember what he said.” Another laugh rises in my chest and bursts free. He gifts me with a sweet smile.

“Perhaps we should try to count then.” I turn back to the portrait and he stands next to me. Shoulder to shoulder as we examine the face of a long dead ancestor. At least, I am guessing he is dead, based on the ruffled collar he wears.

“Do you think anyone choked wearing those?” The laugh that rings down the gallery is his this time. On an impulse, I grasp his hand and drag him to the next. This one is of a couple and I find myself mimicking her pose.

“I think you have all the makings of a duchess,” he says. “Or perhaps not. There is too much laughter in your eyes.” I glance at the serious woman in the portrait and then back at him, his quirked smile. I attempt to keep my entire face somber and only earn a slowly widening, red stained smile until he laughs, shaking his head and unable to believe my act as I too laugh. Odd that I have never noticed his smile as being lopsided. I am learning all sorts of new things about my fiancé tonight.

We wander the gallery, commenting on the stern faces depicted in each portrait. He turns it into a game of sorts, concocting stories about the inhabitants of canvas, forever frozen. Most of them are silly and ridiculous and have me laughing until I can hardly breathe. Then we reach a set that dampens the mood and yet reveals so much.

“This poor lady was told to appear more cheerful and cannot.”

“Why not?”

“Her husband brought home another hunting trophy to clutter up her drawing room.” He points to the portrait immediately to the right, a stern looking man standing triumphant over a dead tiger.

“The poor creature. Why would you kill such a magnificent animal?”

“I was led to believe that you hunt,” he says and I lift one shoulder to convey a sort of indifference.

“If there is a use for the animal. A stag provides a bounty of meat, skin to be turned into leather for shoes or tack, antlers carved into tools such as needles and more. But this...have you ever eaten a tiger steak?”

“I cannot say that I have.”

“Perhaps if one were desperate or close to starving, but this man is garbed in gold buckles on his shoes and the finest velvet coat. It is needless and cruel to kill such a creature simply as a trophy. All that accomplishes is to satisfy your vanity.”

The look he gives me stirs something deep within. I feel as though we have somehow charged the air with our conversation and if one of us so much as speaks, the entire place with erupt. He leans towards me for a moment and then steps abruptly towards the next portrait and I wonder if he was about to kiss me in the middle of the portrait gallery. But why? And then... Why didn’t he?

After that, we continue our game with a touch less levity, although in between portraits we answer superficial questions.

“What is your favourite colour?”

“I am appalled by your question and shall fetch my Uncle at once to defend my honour,” I protest, lifting my nose and turning from him with a smile still on my lips, earning a warm chuckle from him.

“I doubt that you need his help. Perhaps if I tell you mine?”

“Green,” I say, not really wanting to put up too much of a fight and flattered by his comment on my independence.

“Green?”

“Yes.”

“I imagine for your countryside that you love so much.”

“And my forests. I need trees as much as I need air to breathe.”

“Which explains why you are so fond of riding in the park, the only real source of abundant trees in the city. There are trees in the gardens here, I believe,” he suggests and I pause. He seems to realise my hesitation and alters course. “Orange. My favourite colour is orange.”

“The fruit?”

“No, not quite that bright. A shade of orange that you might find in a sunset.”

“Similar to tonight’s,” I whisper, seeing that beautiful panorama from tonight again and feeling my heart speed at the sudden idea of pausing in evenings to watch the sunset over green hills with him. 

“Exactly like tonight’s.”

“Unorthodox, but I like it. We have this wildflower at Everdeen that blooms in the spring. I missed it this year, with our haste to reach the city and… anyways I think you might favour the shade.”

“Might I?” his fingers brush mine and I shiver, disappointed when he withdraws his touch. “Tell me more about your home?”

I lose myself telling him all about the hills and the forests, my time as a girl, my father, Primrose and mother with their healing hands and welcoming hearts. The families who rely on us, the faded golden and green and purple hues of the harvest. I am astonished at how he listens, asking all manner of questions at exactly the right time. I talk and talk until I am sure that he must be bored with me and then realise that we have traversed the entire length of the gallery back again, to the doorway where we began. 

“It sounds lovely. I hope for the chance to see it one day.”

“You shall,” I promise with a smile and he seems to fidget nervously for a moment.

“Miss Everdeen,” he begins and then stalls for a moment, as though gathering his thoughts before he continues. “There is something I should confess to you.”

A strong breeze curls in through the doors to the gardens, setting the thin gauzy curtains to dance. It distracts me and I catch the scent of the flora, the cool night air. The music beckons, and yet as much as I want to dance with him, the pull of the gardens is stronger.

“Not in here,” I insist and take his hand, leading him outside and into the night. 

His steps falter and I hasten, hoping that we will not be seen and that I will not regret this decision. I have spent unending hours with him for the past week, always with someone else present, and now that I have him to myself, I am discovering that he is an excellent listener, kind and thoughtful. He possesses a wicked sense of humor, steady and calm but with an unexpected heat in his blue eyes. I am curious to see that heat unleashed, yes, but beyond that, tonight is the first I have felt that perhaps I could build a life with this man. Only a few questions remain. Can he reveal himself to me as I have to him? Will he be repulsed by the last remaining secrets I hold? And if he kisses me, will I feel nothing at all or will I find the rapture Madge spoke of?

As we reach an orchard, the boughs of the trees hide us from the night and I inhale a deep breath, releasing it in a content sigh. “Now it is your turn. Tell me of your home.”

“Ah, that may prove difficult.”

“Because there are so many?” I tease and he shakes his head.

“Not quite.”

“Then tell me of your family. Start with your brothers. You once said there were several of you and yet I only know of the one.”

“Alright. Simple enough. There is Ethan, the heir, oldest and most responsible, obviously in line for the title.”

“Obviously,” I tease and he smiles.

“He is married to a lovely lady of irreproachable breeding and education named Sara. Sara prefers eating between meals and sneaks treats of all kinds to everyone she cares about whenever she is eating out of the routine and yet, she has never once been caught doing so. None of us wish to see her in trouble nor the end of the treats. She is also an excellent card player. Never wager against her, always partner with her.”

I laugh at this image of a doting woman handing out sweets and fleecing her family and acquaintances of their funds with an angelic smile, married to a stiff man of impeccable manners.

“They have five children, one son and four daughters, and the rest of us are constantly reminded how far behind we are.”

I blush at this, thinking in that moment of him playing on the floor with a small gathering of children, dark and light hair mixed together and laughter on the air.

“Then there is Henry, the spare, and also a scholar. He prefers the company of books to people. You will be lucky to get more than five words out of him unless it is to discuss the latest treatise on the ancient philosophers or the newest development in astronomy. His wife is named Angelica and she is...well the Marquis prefers to pretend she does not even exist.”

“Why not?” I ask, oddly defensive on this Angelica’s behalf.

“Because she is a professor of science, although no one beyond our family knows it is her. She conducts her classes via correspondence and a series of guest lecturers. In truth her real work is in the laboratory and in writing about her discoveries. You cannot tell anyone of this, Miss Everdeen.”

“Because it would ruin your family’s reputation to have a woman professor of science?”

“No,” he says and stops walking. “That is why the Marquis would wish for your silence, but not I. I ask for it because were she to be found out, she would no longer be allowed to continue her work.”

“You trust me with this?” I ask and he nods.

“Somehow I cannot see you doing anything that might jeopardize a woman moving through a man’s world.”

“You have figured me out,” I say and continue walking to avoid the odd tears gathering in my eyes. That he would trust me with such a secret, almost as though he already sees me as part of the family.

“Not yet, but I do feel as though we have made some progress tonight.”

“So then do Henry and Angelica have any children?” I ask, ignoring the happy flutter his words cause, knowing that we both entered this evening with similar goals.

“They adopted one child, a girl named Emma who had been abandoned near the Marquis’ estates.”

“And your father does not approve.”

“Hardly. But he approves of very little.”

“Would he approve of me?” I ask and hold my breath.

“Likely not,” he whispers. I shiver in delight as one finger traces the designs up my arm, starting from my wrist. He stops at the elbow and withdraws his touch. “I apologize, Miss Everdeen. I should not be so bold.”

Again I feel a pull towards him, like in the portrait gallery. His father would not approve and yet he does not care. An urge to move closer nearly overpowers me and I divert once more. There is more I wish to know before I lose all sense and kiss him.

“So then after Henry is you.”

“Yes,” he still whispers. “If a second son is a spare, you can imagine how superfluous a third or fourth son are.”

“And what profession would you choose to make your way in the world? Your twin, as you call him, has already covered the military.”

This seems to surprise him and he moves away from me, coughs slightly to clear his throat. “Yes, Peeta does have that one covered. Perhaps the church.”

“Somehow I cannot see that,” I say and he laughs. “Your father then has steep expectations of all of you.”

“One could say that. He is not...not a warm or affectionate man. He is kinder to his children than most other people in the world, at least.”

“And what of your mother?”

“That is...let us not delve into that tonight.”

“Very well,” I concede, curious but not willing to push too far. “There is yet one brother we have not covered.”

“You really wish to know?” he asks with a strange bite in his tone, almost defensive and stronger than it was when he spoke of his sister, Angelica.

“You seem close to each other. I wish to know of the important people in your life, even if he is a bit abrasive and was born on the wrong side of the blanket.” Even from behind the mask, I can see his eyes darken and narrow.

“The simple version of it is that he came to live with us when he was eleven. Before that, there were no real connections with him.” This surprises me and I know it shows on my face. “We were born on the same day, two years apart. Peeta is technically the older, although most people refer to him as the younger, fourth son. The same man fathered us, and the Marchioness despises Peeta’s presence in the world and in her house. The only reason she tolerates him at all is because it is rather impossible to deny the blood connection given the physical similarities and because her husband ordered her to do so. Anything else, Miss Everdeen?”

“I do not mean to offend,” I gasp out, uncertain how this changed so quickly. I have never seen Sir Robert angry or indignant about anything. He seems to float through life for the most part, and for one moment, I think that now I truly see the brotherly similarities, right before he seems to wilt and shakes his head.

“No, it is I who should apologize. You are asking out of a desire to know more of the family, not to malign, are you not?”

“I am.” I swallow and think of what Madge said, about how Peeta protects Robert the way that I protect Prim. This new information, this detail about Peeta being older than Robert sheds new light on their relationship. I can envision a young Peeta being ushered into a school room and ordered to conform to the expectations of the son of a marquis, being held responsible for his younger and more privileged but also more gregarious younger brother. Sir Robert perhaps providing levity and fun while Peeta provided the steady seriousness required of them. I can picture him providing a solid buffer between Sir Robert and trouble, protecting him and plucking him from sticky situations. Protecting him from fortune hunting ladies who might take advantage and break his heart. 

The image causes unwanted sensations and a phantom touch that graces my legs along with a deep whisper in my ear and I turn away for a moment to regain my bearings.

“Miss Everdeen?”

“I should apologize as well. He is your brother. And if your relationship with him is anything like mine is with my sister...then you would do anything to protect him, and he you.”

“I would,” he says, and it sounds so much like a vow that I smile. We understand each other then. And now we arrive at the real test.

“Then I have one more thing to confess to you and then I expect that dance.” He moves to stand behind me, keeping enough space that we do not touch, yet close enough that I can feel the atoms of the air moving between us, around us. I feel the space as a tangible thing and close my eyes as I speak. I whisper to keep the air around us from igniting.

“I am...marked, sir.”

“Marked? How so?”

“By fire. I was...very young. Fifteen. My sister had a cat that was meant to stay in the barn and catch mice. He was an excellent mouser. We dubbed him the defendender of the lambs and pigs.”

He laughs at this and I feel my heart lightening a little. Enough to tell him the rest.

“She turned him into her pet and would bring him inside in secret, whenever it stormed. When my parents were gone for several weeks, we stayed with our neighbors. Their daughter is still my closest friend and we would often pretend we were sisters ourselves.” I swallow and his fingers find mine, tracing between them then up over the back of my hand, the touch so intimate and comforting. With his touch, I find the courage to continue. “My sister smuggled the cat to the manor with her. While we were there, my friend...her father had recently suffered a severe reverse in his fortunes. He told no one and sealed a marriage contract for my friend to a complete stranger.” I pause to breathe and cannot seem to continue.

“The Countess?”

“Madge, yes,” I say and feel his head bend towards mine. The delicate touch of his forehead to my crown and the whisper of breath over my scalp.

“He...he took his own life and Madge was devastated. She vanished somewhere into the estate and no one could find her. I knew where she was hiding yet told no one, thinking she needed some time to herself to grieve. My sister thought differently and sought her out. That evening, a fire started. No one quite knows how, although Lady Undersee was quite ill before her husband died. She often complained of headaches and Madge always preferred spending time at our home. We were...not required to be quiet at Everdeen. Lord Undersee’s death seemed to break his wife and she secluded herself. Many suspect her mind simply gave up that night and…”

“And the fire grew out of control before anyone knew what had happened?”

I nod and his hold on my hand tightens, draws me in closer as he turns me to face him. I stare at his chest as I continue. “I made it outside, as did the servants. But my sister and Madge. They were still inside. So I went in after them. I found Madge first, since I knew where to find her. She told me that Prim had wandered off, chasing the cat who had been terrified by the flames. We searched for Prim but, a beam fell, separating me from Madge. I told her to make her way outside, eventually found my sister and the cursed cat. I broke a window to escape and the air… it fed the flames. My dressing gown caught without me knowing. We made it out, all of us, barely and…” I cannot finish and blink to keep my tears in my eyes. A mask will not afford me privacy from tears. A gentle touch slides beneath my chin and lifts my head. I dare not look at him, afraid of what I shall see in his eyes.

“You saved your sister, and your friend.”

“And was left marked. Disfigured. The doctors remarked how it was a blessing that the flames never touched my face and yet… My parents chose not to set me loose on society and instead kept me in the country, fearing that the world would turn away from me in disgust if they learned of my scars. Worst of all, my friend lost both her parents that week. Had we not needed to find my sister and that daft cat, perhaps we could have saved Madge’s mother instead.”

“Perhaps. But I doubt that, if what you say about her grief is true. What you did was incredibly brave and selfless, regardless of who you saved and who you could not save.”

“Incredibly stupid,” I contradict and finally look up at him to find a deep blue well of sadness staring down at me. He shakes his head slightly.

“The two are so often intertwined it is impossible to tell them apart. You risked your life for another and should not feel shame at the marks left on your body. It is nothing more than flesh. What is in your heart is far more important.”

That same organ speeds up at his words as his gaze shifts to my shoulder, the one covered in fabric. He tilts his head and smiles softly.

“This shoulder. The scars are on this shoulder, are they not? That is the reason for your unique gown design.”

“Yes,” I whisper as he releases my chin to trace the edge of the fabric. Heat burns through me to such a degree that I fear more scarring and yet do not want to turn back. He has revealed so much of his true nature from behind the safety of the mask tonight. It only seems fair I show him mine. 

“May I?” he whispers and I nod once. He will see them eventually, after all. What difference does it make if it is tonight or our wedding night? There is a small part of me that braces for his disgust, despite his gentle words. 

Slowly, he peels back the fabric, revealing my damaged skin. I shiver and take deep breaths that turn to soft gasps as his lips touch me. Soft. Warm. Gentle, and dare I say it? Loving. Sensations radiate through me, and my knees quake. He kisses over my scars, then back up to my neck. “I should stop.”

“No, please,” I gasp and let go his hand to grab hold of his sleeves. The world pitches and tilts as he kisses beneath my ear and groans.

“Katniss.” 

I smile and shudder beneath his kisses. It is the first time he has spoken my name and I sound beautiful and cherished on his tongue. I can easily imagine a lifetime of hearing my name whispered thus in the night. He knows me now and it thrills me beyond measure as his hand slides up my bodice to cradle my face and his kisses trail over my jaw in a slow burn towards my lips, even as his other hand soothes the memory of burns and pain in gentle strokes over ravaged skin. 

“I wish you had never had to feel such agony. Never been called upon to be so brave so young.”

I tilt my head as though on instinct, heart pounding as his clean scent fills my head and the warmth of his lips tempts me deeper into this tryst. And I need to know. I wish that I could do it. Wed and bed with no feeling. Keep my marriage to business and contracts. Practical and cold, but I cannot. I need to know there will be some comfort, some connection at least if not love. His hand squeezes my shoulder and his lips swerve over my cheek, back towards my ear where he almost nibbles, taunting me.

“Never allow anyone to lead you to believe that you…” his kisses return towards my mouth just to the corner as I pant and cling to him, wishing for something I cannot name, afraid of wanting it so deeply. “...are anything less than exquisite.”

He breathes the words between my parted lips and still does not kiss them. I smile and shake my head, his hold on me gentle enough to allow the motion with ease.

“Such pretty words, but do you mean them?”

“Their beauty lies in their truth.” 

It takes great effort to open my eyes and look into his. I can only stand it for a second before I pitch upwards and kiss him on his red stained lips. For one second he turns rigid as a statue, his grip on my shoulder tight and almost painful now. What did he expect with all the words and touches we have already shared tonight? I thought he wanted this as well and retreat, immediately humiliated and shamed. Perhaps it was a terrible kiss. It is my first, after all. Perhaps like riding a horse, kissing is a skill that takes practice. Or perhaps he truly is scandalised by my boldness. Tears prick at me but his hold is iron and I cannot escape, though I admit my attempts are feeble.

“Forgive me,” he moans and then his hand slides into my hair, his arm wraps around me and his lips join with mine again, crushing my small sound of surprise between us. His lips caress over mine and the sound melts into a soft moan that echoes down to my toes. My arms wrap around his neck, my body pressed to his, seeking more of whatever this delicious feeling coursing through me is.

So then this is what they whisper about behind laundry tubs and changing screens. Silken whispers of desire and passion and fire. Kisses that brand and claim and leave you wanting for more. He is everything in this moment. Everything that I want and need and crave. Bodily temptation and sustenance for my starving soul. Rapture. I feel my spine arch, molding my body to his. His lips on mine, gently demanding an answer.

_ Yes!  _ I want to scream.  _ Yes!  _ a thousand times over to the thundering of my heart in my breast.

Something wet traces my lips and I shiver in delight, hands grasping bunches of fabric when he lifts his head to whisper to me.

“Open your mouth. Please, my pearl, open your mouth and let me taste you.” My lips part on a deep breath, a little stunned at the tendril of desperation in his tone and the salacious suggestion in his words. His thumb traces my lower lip, tugging it down for a second. “Exquisite.”

And then I’ve no room for thinking. His lips drink every breath or word I might exhale. His tongue learns the shape of my lips. He swallows my stunned desperate gasp and then his tongue is in my mouth, hot and giving and greedy all at once. Taking and demanding but somehow bestowing far more than he takes. My body sags against him, relieved and overwhelmed, made boneless at the feel of him exploring and tasting, at the invitation I feel in his kisses to reciprocate.

_ Let me taste you _ , he had said. I slide my hands into his hair and boldly swipe my tongue past his into his mouth. He grunts and then retreats, drawing me in deeper. Inviting me to take control. My head spins and I accept the invitation. Kissing him as deeply as he kissed me. His hot exhales burn from his nose over my cheeks and then…

He steps back, hands gripping my shoulders and holding me away from him. His breaths heavy in the fragrant night.

“No. We cannot.”

“Why not?” I ask, voice trembling as cracks open across my heart. Tonight, for the first time, I have felt close to and possibly as though I could love the man I am meant to marry. More so than any moment before this, and yet he wants to withdraw. “We are to be married soon, Robert, remember? Or did you not mean your proposal this morning? We will spend the rest of our lives together. Why is it wrong for me to wonder about this? To seek an answer?”

“What?” He shakes his head and releases me, stepping back out of my grasp, towards the shadows. Silence stretches between us as I watch his shoulders sag, as though defeated. “It is not wrong. Your curiosity and need for an answer is not wrong.” His voice trembles in a way I cannot identify. “Did you find your answer?”

“Yes. Did you?” I ask, reaching for my dress to pull the sleeve back in place. He reaches for me and then seems to think better of it, pulling his hand back as though burned.

“I did,” he says, although his voice cracks. He sounds miserable. “Katniss, please forgive me.”

That is the second time he has beseeched me thus. Before I can tell him that I do not understand why I need forgive him, he steps towards me and touching me with only his lips, kisses me one more time. Brief. Passionate. Desperate. And then over.

“Exquisite. The man who marries you is the most fortunate bastard in the world,” he whispers. “Never let him forget that.”

Then he disappears, leaving me burning and reeling and somehow giddy. One crazed laugh escapes my lips and I cover my mouth to contain it. To hold in the heat of his kisses for just a moment longer. I take another moment to secure my cowl, to set my dress and mask to rights, and then I march back into the mansion with a spring in my step. I catch one flash of blonde curls shimmering in the candle light as he departs the ball, bowing to the Duchess and saying something that makes her smile and laugh before he disappears into the night.

I hope that he will dream of me tonight and then scold myself for such fanciful thoughts. Ours is still a marriage of convenience. And yet, our time together, his kisses tonight suggest possibilities. Hope lifts me high into dreams of a future. Could I be so fortunate as to have stumbled my way into a love match?

I am still pondering it when I collapse in the carriage after the ball, keeping my face as stoic as possible while Effie prattles on with the gossip. Haymitch grunts at intervals, pretending to listen. Madge examines me from across the carriage and it takes all my efforts to not blush or burst into a fit of giggles under her examination, especially when I see that all three of my family members in the carriage wear red stains on their lips. I hold it together until we are changed for bed and the maids have left us alone. Then I cannot and when Madge arches one eyebrow at me, I collapse into bed and squeal into my pillow.

“Now you really have to explain yourself,” she says. I feel the weight of her joining me on the mattress and turn my head to smile, uncaring how ridiculous I look.

“He kissed me.”

“And?” she prompts when I say no more. A sigh escapes me unbidden and Madge smiles. “That good?”

“It was...exquisite,” I tell her and she shoves me.

“You little minx! Tell me more than that.” We talk late into the night, into the early morning hours as I share my secrets with her. She takes my hand in hers as we yawn and drift closer to sleep as the sun begins to peek over the horizon. “I am happy for you, Katniss. I wish you happiness and love together. Truly this venture turned out much better than I expected when we left Everdeen.”

“It truly has,” I say and squirm deeper into the covers for warmth. What will it be like to sleep beside my husband? I shall find out soon, although perhaps not soon enough. I think of the announcement no doubt waiting to be printed in the papers and of Father back home. 

The thought dampens my good mood. I need to return. While I’ve been drinking punch, laughing over portraits, and kissing a man, my father suffers and my mother languishes. Such liberties I allowed him tonight! Here in my bed, shame overwhelms the joy I felt in his arms. I was not aware that one could kiss by caressing tongues until this evening and it seems such a brazen thing for me to have allowed him on our first kiss. Guilt follows, rising up inside me, swirling together with an unpleasant mixture of feelings in my breast. I have been selfish and now that I have accomplished what I set out to do, I must focus on my duties.

Perhaps Robert will agree to a hasty wedding and damn the gossips, or perhaps I should leave the wedding planning in Effie’s hands while I return home and see to some business as well as my family. Surely a long engagement cannot hurt.

I slip into slumber, resolved to speak to him about it tomorrow.


	7. Chapter 7

I wake eager to start the day with a list of tasks to accomplish. Having slept late after our night of revelry, I haven’t as much time as I would like. I prepare in my head the things I wish to discuss with Robert. There is the obvious issue of my home and my need to return soon, but there is also the matter of Peeta.

After much thinking, I have determined that perhaps I have not been as kind to Peeta as I ought. He did help me that day in the rain, and he means a great deal to Robert, perhaps as much as Prim means to me. I cannot fathom severing their bonds as brothers and add making amends with Peeta to my list of tasks needing my attention.

Only, there is no word from Sir Robert. No love letters or sonnets. No pink roses waiting for me at the breakfast table and no cards announcing a visit, at least not any from the man I kissed last night.

The longer the day stretches with no word from him, the more agitated I become, especially given the looks of concern Madge continues to send me throughout the day. Effie begins the day with a wide smile, but by the end she is more distraught than I. Before the afternoon of visitors even ends, she retreats to her room to nurse a headache and leaves the remainder of the entertaining to Madge and I. I find myself in the awkward position of chaperoning a visit from three different gentlemen… who clearly have come to see Madge, not I. Technically I am not supposed to chaperone as I have never been married, but since I allowed a man to kiss me and half undress me in the gardens last night, I suppose it is apparent that I do not much care for technicalities and propriety anyways.

Uncle Haymitch joins us for dinner, adding another face of concern. It is more than I can stand.

“Perhaps he drank too much and was recovering today,” Effie suggests in a whisper and I bow my head, unable to tell them that if that is the case, then he went elsewhere to drink after the ball. He was perfectly sober when he left me in the gardens. “Tell me again everything that he said.”

I sigh and give Effie the highly redacted version of my night that I gave her less than an hour ago.

“There must be a reason,” she insists. “If there is no word tomorrow, Haymitch will pay a visit to him. Or to the Marquis!”

“I will not go see the Marquis unless it is to greet him at the gates of hell.”

“Honestly Haymitch, I do not know what your issue is with the man, but you must set it aside for the sake of our niece!”

“Madame. I warned you not to tangle with that family,” he snarls at her and stands, squeezing my shoulder once before leaving the dining room. Effie huffs and I can barely summon the energy to wonder at his words. Whatever his reasoning for not wanting me to pursue Sir Robert, it appears that perhaps he was right.

The sun sets and then another day passes. That is all the pouting I allow myself. I need to return home. I long for it in a way I cannot describe, but I cannot leave the city with no resolution betwixt me and my betrothed. I resolve to not sit on my haunches. With Madge fast asleep, I light a candle and pen a note to Sir Robert. 

As the ink dries, I read through my words and scowl. That won’t do. I sound angry and petulant. I crumple it up and throw it in the grate, gnashing my teeth to release the anger into the air and not into my missive to him.

The next is discarded for sounding too lovesick. Another for containing one too many complaints. Another comes out accusatory and while I think it justified, the words may not inspire much passion on his part. 

It is early in the morning when I throw away my tenth attempt and climb into bed, defeated. I have no idea how to pen a decent love letter. I shall simply have to throw another convention to the winds and visit him myself tomorrow.

My sleep is terrible as I spend the rest of the night reliving our time at the masquerade, searching for clues and only confusing myself more. All those beautiful things he said about dancing a thousand dances on a broken leg for me and he can’t even be bothered to send a note. 

Perhaps he has fallen ill. As awful a person as it makes me for even thinking it, I hope that this is the case. It is uncharitable of me, yes but it is a decent explanation that satisfies my vanity and gives me the courage to brave the world in the morning. 

I know that I still look ghastly when I finally make it downstairs, seeking food and nothing more, only to be accosted by Aunt Effie in a fit of screams.

“Look, my darling, darling girl!” She shoves a newspaper at me and hurries up the stairs. “I am going to wake Haymitch! He needs to see this! I knew that young man would turn up! He is besotted with you, after all!”

I glance half hearted at the newspaper and the words in the weekly society pages that have Effie so elated.

“Katniss! Go put on a different dress! That one is making your complexion look sallow. You cannot greet the Marquis or Sir Robert thus!”

“The Marquis is visiting today?” Madge asks as she emerges from the library with a book in her hands and a hopeful smile on her face.

“No card yet, but an engagement announcement in the papers! He cannot ignore you now!”

I shove the papers at Madge and walk into the breakfast room, loading a plate to overflowing as she reads the words aloud, announcing to the world that a Miss Katniss Everdeen of Southeastern Panem, daughter of Mr. Kent Everdeen and his wife Mrs. Elise Everdeen, shall soon wed Sir Robert K. Mellark, third son of the Marquis and Marchioness de Vale, Lord Reginald and his wife, Lady Tabitha Mellark.

“This is good news!” she says as I drop my plate on the table with an unladylike amount of vigour and noise.

“I do not understand it.”

“It was only two days without word, perhaps he was seeing to the papers and license,” Madge soothes and takes my hand in hers.

“Not even a note? No word for days, Madge.”

“You disturb my sleep for this?” Haymitch shouts.

“Tell your niece to put on the blue dress. It brings out her eyes and she won’t listen to me this morning! She must look her best today!”

I groan and stand to pour myself some coffee. I do not usually drink the stuff, but I think I might need it today. 

“Katniss, sweetheart, if you have an ounce of affection for me, you will do as your aunt says so that she stops harping at me about something as trivial as the shade of your dress!”

Before a decent argument begins, there is a knock at the door.

“Oh! That will be Matilda. She will have seen the announcement!”

Chaos ensues as Effie attempts to push me up the stairs to change, before I am done with my breakfast.

“I do not need to see Matilda. She is your friend.”

“She will want to see the bride to be! I do not often get the chance to gloat and show you off, darling!” Effie gushes and Haymitch attempts to use a silver platter as a mirror to tie his cravat. “Margaret! A little help.”

“At least let her finish her toast, Aunt Effie.”

“Ahem.” We all turn to stare at the butler as he bows. “I beg your pardon. The Marquis de Vale and a Mr. Peeta Mellark await you in the study, Mr. Abernathy.”

“The study?”

“Peeta?”

“Not Sir Robert?”

The butler’s head swivels between the three of us ladies and finally settles on looking at Haymitch.

“They wish an audience with Mr. Abernathy and Miss Everdeen.”

“Not in the parlor?” Effie squeaks and Haymitch sets his hands on her shoulders. “That is not sociable at all. What is going on, Haymitch?”

“Compose yourself and let us deal with this. Take no visitors until we return. Not even Matilda.”

“But Haymitch!”

“Not one visitor, Madame. Katniss, come with me and hope you do not regret listening to your aunt’s courtship advice.”

I wipe my hands clean and then rub my palms on my skirt. They’ve begun to sweat horribly. Haymitch leads me to the study and opens the door for me. I walk in with as much dignity as my churning stomach allows.

Peeta paces the carpet and a man I can only assume is the Marquis stands in front of the window, staring out on the world with his hands folded behind his back. There is a third man I do not recognize, seated and paging through a stack of papers.

“Miss Everdeen,” Peeta says and takes two steps towards me before his father coughs in an annoying manner and Peeta halts. I stare at him as he bows to me, slow and sedate. “Good morning.”

“Abernathy,” the Marquis says and I turn slightly to examine the father. 

Good lord, there’s more of them.

I almost blurt the words out as my eyes dart from one Mellark to the other. If Peeta and Robert look as though they could be twins, despite their difference in age, there is no denying that the man who turns from the window to examine me is most definitely their father. I feel as though I could be looking at one of the brothers forty years from now, with lightened hair at the temples and grooves carved into his face.

Peeta’s lips curl up on one side in a wry smile at my reaction, as though echoing Robert’s words from the other night.  _ Impossible to deny, given the physical similarities.  _ I almost laugh, but manage to contain what I am sure would be a crazed sound.

“Mellark,” Haymitch says and I swear I can hear Effie fainting upstairs at the subtle snub in not using his title. It stuns even me, although the Marquis does not even blink at it.

“It has been some time.”

“Not long enough.”

“Indeed.”

“To what do we owe the honour of your visit?”

“Cease the act, Abernathy. There was an engagement announcement in the papers today and we need to sort it out before it gets out of hand.”

“What is to sort? The announcement is true,” I say and the Marquis arches a brow at me, the lines on his face deepening with his scowl.

“Is it now?”

“Your son Robert proposed to my niece three days ago,” Haymitch says, stepping protectively between myself and the Marquis. The protective gesture annoys me.

“He did not,” the Marquis proclaims confidently.

For some reason, my eyes jump to Peeta. Anger leaps high in me at how he stands there, silent. Surely Robert told him? But no defence is forthcoming from the bastard as the father continues.

“My son,” he sighs deeply and sinks into the chair behind Haymitch’s desk. “Has made a number of costly and foolish choices recently, but proposing to this bit of fluff cannot be one of them. Furthermore, it is most vicious of your family to run this announcement without my approval.”

Anger and indignation rise in me, burning hot as the insinuations sink in.

“We did not run the announcement!”

“And yet here it is in print.”

“Robert must have--” my words are cut short by a solid hand slamming on the desk. I flinch and glance nervously at Peeta to see if the noise had any affect on him at all. He remains a stone wall, unresponsive, just like his horse. But now that I am getting a good look at him, I see that he appears as awful as I feel. Dark circles ring his eyes and his skin appears pale, unnourished. 

Something dreadful has happened.

“Robert could not,” the Marquis insists, his face turning purple as he seems to be stumbling through his words, starting half a dozen sentences and failing to complete them before Peeta finally speaks.

“Robert is gone.”

In the silence that follows, we listen to the ticking clock in the corner and the third man coughs. 

“Gone? Gone how?” I ask, thinking a hundred horrible thoughts of him dead along a roadside, murdered by a highwayman, killed by an overturned carriage, lost to a fever. Perhaps it is cruel of me, but in the moment, death would be welcome to the thought that he courted me, kissed me, and then discarded me so carelessly. My stomach sinks as the Marquis sighs.

“That is not for you to reveal, boy.”

“She deserves to know,” Peeta says and stares his father down. “Whether you wish to admit it or not, Robert was, for all appearances, courting her, and there are any number of witnesses to it. She deserves to know.” 

For one second, I am struck with the impression of two colliding thunderstorms and then the Marquis relents. “Very well, then. You claim to know the tart, you tell her.”

I gasp at the insult and Haymitch steps forward, but Peeta comes between the two older men, a contrite look on his face.

“May I speak with your niece, Mr. Abernathy?”

“She is standing right there. No need for permission,” the Marquis says. He is lucky his son stands guard because I have half a mind to fetch a weapon and split his skull for his rude behavior.

“Please,” Peeta says softly. Something in his voice draws my attention to him, and I am frozen in place by his pleading gaze. There is pain in his eyes and curiosity gets the better of me. I squeeze my uncle’s arm. Haymitch nods his silent permission and Peeta takes a deep breath before explaining. “He has eloped with someone. My brother Ethan and several others went after him, but they were...”

I stare at him as though he’s speaking another language, unable to believe the words or what they mean for me.

“Too late. He’s already married the trollop and made annulment impossible, God help him,” the Marquis growls and launches into a tirade that I cannot follow. My head swims with the news. 

Robert eloped and already married someone else. For an instant, I feel as though my soul separates from my body. I cannot process this news, cannot reconcile it with the events of the masquerade. How could this happen? I saw him only a few days ago and the man I spent the night with at the masquerade seemed enthralled with me. The things he said, the way he kissed me! How could he already have married someone else? I know that Peeta said Robert falls in love easily but who could he have fallen in love with that quickly?

Peeta. Peeta would know with who and how this happened.

I refocus my attention on him. Oddly, he seems to be the only person I can focus on right now as he whispers. “I am...sorry, Miss Everdeen.”

“I have restricted my son and his...wife to remain far from town until this has time to fade out of interest. It would have not been an issue at all were it not for this travesty.” The Marquis lifts the paper and smacks it down on the desk. “You people--”

“Who ran the announcement is of little consequence,” Peeta interrupts and his father glares hotly at him. “The damage is done and the important matter now is repairing it.”

“Indeed,” the third man finally dares to speak, but I’ve no time to ask who he is or why he’s here.

“I do not see how this is our concern. Your boy is the one who ran off and broke the engagement. Katniss has done nothing wrong,” Haymitch says and the Marquis smiles. The expression is repulsive, almost sadistic and I have to force myself not to reach for Haymitch’s hand.

“Do you really wish to test that theory, Abernathy?”

I wait for Haymitch to leap to my defense, to tell this man to go to hell. The silence stretches to unbearable until the Marquis stands and spreads his hands on the desk.

“I thought not. Here is what is to be done. Robert is now married and obviously cannot have two wives. We have an engagement announcement in the papers that will destroy his status as a gentleman if allowed to stand, and I cannot allow that, no matter how beneath his rank he has chosen to wed. Luckily, I still have one unmarried son. A retraction, a correction will run in the society papers next week. I have already submitted it for print, announcing that your...Katrina--”

“Katniss,” Peeta corrects.

“No matter. Announcing that today’s paper contained a mistake and she is to marry Peeta here instead.”

“I will not!” I shout. I have been insulted, accused, and abused this morning. I will not stand for having my life decided for me as well.

“Sweetheart, hush,” Haymitch tries to soothe and I turn my anger on him, glaring daggers that he seems willing to roll over and take orders from this pompous ass.

“My solicitor, Mr. Cameron,” the Marquis waves towards the third man in the room, “has already drawn up the papers. You will sign today and then you and your family will tell every caller to your house of the mistake. Play it for a lark or a joke. An amusing misunderstanding if you must. You will not breathe so much as a word of Robert’s marriage. Tell them whatever they need to hear. Perhaps that your niece fell madly in love with Peeta instead of Robert. There is precedence for that sort of claim to a fickle heart in your family after all.”

Fury contained burns hot in my blood as he speaks. Ruthless, manipulative, cold and demanding. My mother was too kind in her description of him when she only used one of those words. I hate him already and my fingers itch to claw his eyes out before he even delivers the worst of his verdict.

“My son and your niece will be married as soon as feasible. Afterwards, I will announce Robert’s marriage in such a way that it will not seem that his marriage prompted this fiasco, and then this mess will disappear, no permanent harm done,” the Marquis finishes and runs his hands over his waistcoat.

“No permanent harm done?” I take a step towards him with murder in my mind, but Haymitch intercepts.

“I would have a word with my niece,” he says as I struggle to free myself from his grip and not cry in front of these bastards who would decide my life for me.

“Of course. We will wait here.” The Marquis waves his hand, dismissing us and my anger nearly bubbles over into screeching at his treatment of my uncle in his own home, at his cold assurance that he will get exactly his way.

Haymitch drags me down the hall and practically slams me into a wall as my tears break free. “How can you let him speak to you so? How did this happen?”

“Katniss, get ahold of yourself! You’ve gotten embroiled in a scandal with the wrong family, that is what happened. God damnit! I should have listened to my instincts and not Effie’s insistence.”

“Explain now.”

“Thirty-five years ago, that man in there courted your mother and proposed to her. She refused because she was already in love with someone else, and two days later her engagement to your father appeared in the papers. She was lucky to walk away unscathed. She had no sisters to protect, no obvious weak spots for him to exploit. He had not come into his title yet, he found another poor wretch to marry him instead, and  _ his _ father was slightly more forgiving. Elise has no idea what she narrowly escaped. You are not going to be so lucky as your mother, Katniss.”

“I won’t marry his bastard son to salvage the reputation of a man who proposed and then reneged! It won’t damage Robert that much anyways! Ha-ha! He realised too late how unsuitable the poor, untitled farmer’s daughter was for him!”

“Sweetheart,” Haymitch shakes his head and his face twists in pain. “I hate this for you as much as you do. But you do not comprehend the danger. Just a word or two, even a whisper of a scandal out of that man’s mouth and both you and Prim will suffer.”

“Prim?” I ask, freezing in horror. “It would be lies!”

“It matters not. All that will matter is who chooses to believe him. His is not the sort of power you can enrage without consequence. Do you understand?”

My tears and heaving slows. I still do not understand what happened between the masquerade and the morning after to so change Robert’s affections towards me. I feel as though a knife has been lodged between my ribs, but I can understand what Haymitch is saying. Lord Mellark could make it so that no one decent will marry Prim or myself. 

In other words, I will have to marry Peeta. I have no choice.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Details are finalised. Mr Cameron adjusts the contract as appropriate. Lord Mellark makes a point of telling me how Peeta will now receive half of the amount meant for Sir Robert upon marriage as well as the amount intended for Peeta himself, since the youngest legitimate Mellark has caused his father and his family such embarrassment and trouble.

“Does that satisfy, Miss Everdeen?” Lord Mellark asks as Haymitch signs the paperwork in my father’s stead and hands the quill to me so that I may also sign.

“It is most generous,” I say, certain when he nods that Lord Mellark missed my sarcasm.

The last signature sealing my fate belongs to Peeta. He accepts the quill from me and nearly drops it with how hard he tries to keep from touching me in the exchange. A sickening feeling fills me as I wonder what, if anything, Robert told him about that night at the masquerade. My eyes jump to the scars on his face. Annoyance that he would so judge me when he is clearly marked as I am churns in my gut. Or perhaps there are other reasons he now acts as though I have leprosy.

Then I cannot watch as he bends over the desk to sign. I stare unseeing out the window and wait for the scratching of quill tip on parchment. It does not arrive. Peeta stands and sets the quill back in its jar.

“May I speak to you a moment, Miss Everdeen?”

“I think you have spoken enough,” I say.

“There will be time for that later. Sign the papers.” I truly wish I could challenge his blasted father to a duel.

“After then? Perhaps a walk in the garden?” Peeta persists.

“I would not foul the pathways so,” I say, furious that he would suggest such a thing, even if he is unaware of what passed between Robert and I three days ago. A proposal in one garden and a kiss in another. I don’t care if it was not real, I won’t allow this bastard to further sully my memories of that day. The Marquis makes an odd noise in his throat.

“You are a nasty piece, aren’t you? No wonder my son had no real interest in you.”

The words strike deep and cause such pain. When I was eight, my mare was spooked by a snake and threw me. I laid on the ground gasping for air, my chest tighter than a corset. I thought I might die and this feeling that Lord Mellark imposes on me with his words is far worse than that feeling. 

Because it must be true. Regardless of what happened at the masquerade, Robert would not have eloped and married another with such haste and no word of explanation to me if he felt any true regard for either myself or my feelings. Whatever I felt that night was truly one sided.

“Enough insults, Mellark. She has signed your damn papers. Allow the girl some anger and upset for the way things have turned out,” Haymitch says.

Lord Mellark grunts and begins to gather his things. “I haven’t time for this, boy. Already I have wasted an entire morning on this mess. Either sign or I will pursue my initial plans.”

I have no idea what he means, but whatever it is spurs Peeta into action. I’ve never seen anyone sign their name so fast nor with so much restrained rage. The glare he sends his own father leaves me breathless. I feel a slight twinge of pity as I realise that I am not the only one being forced into this travesty of marriage against my will.

Then I crush it. I have no space in my shattered heart for Peeta’s pain. I’ve enough of my own to carry.

“Excellent. I’m off. Good day, Abernathy.” The Marquis departs with his solicitor and his papers.

The three of us left in the room linger in charged silence until the carriage leaves.

“Why are you still here?” I snarl at Peeta.

“I should go explain things to your aunt,” Haymitch says and practically runs from the room. I scowl after him, furious at his cowardice in leaving me alone with this bastard. Shouldn’t he at least punch Peeta to defend my honour?

_ I doubt that you need his help.  _ Robert’s words about me not needing Haymitch to defend my honour rise up in my memory to taunt me. Very well then. I shall do it myself.

“There is something I must tell you,” Peeta says before I can so much as make a fist.

“I’ve no wish to entertain a bastard this afternoon. If you’ll be so good as to see yourself out.” I spin and march from the room. I make it to the stairs before the tears start and then I run.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

I lay with eyes fixed on the window, the curtains parted just enough to admit the glow of the moon. So beautiful and cold in the night sky. I wonder if Prim or my mother were able to enjoy their evening. It has been several days since I heard from them. I never told them of my engagement, thankfully. At first distracted by the masquerade and then by Sir Robert’s silence, I never sent word. Now I am glad that I did not, for explaining that mess would only make this entire situation worse. And to think just three nights ago, I squealed with foolish, girlish joy over a few kisses, thinking myself to be falling in love. 

My eyes ache, tormented by the need to contain my tears all day while I was forced to sit in the parlor between Aunt Effie and Madge. Forced to drink tea and laugh at the “mistake.” Forced to pretend joy at my betrothal to a man I despise and who I am certain despises me.

Of course every known acquaintance would choose today to visit, tempted here by that blasted announcement to offer their congratulations. Effie insists it was not her who ran the announcement. That leaves only Robert himself, but that makes no sense either and unfortunately, Peeta was right. It matters not who sent in the announcement. What matters now is repairing the damage. 

While I have been mourning for my loss of something I am not certain I ever possessed, barely able to speak and instead hiding behind a false smile of speechless fake joy, Madge and Effie had the difficult task of explaining that no, Katniss shan’t be wedding the charming Sir Robert but the  _ other _ brother, with whom I am apparently madly in love.

I could release them now. The tears. I’ve enough of a broken heart to fill the night with sobs aplenty and give myself a headache, but I refuse to give the trio of Mellark bastards determining my future the satisfaction.

“Katniss…” Madge whispers. Her voice sounds choked, as though she too is holding back tears. “I’m so sorry. I… I was so concerned about returning to Maysilee as soon as possible. So happy when it seemed that we might find you a decent man for a husband with such ease that I was—“ she sniffles as tears slip from my eyes. I know she is crying as well. “I’m so sorry. I do not want your marriage to be anything like mine was.”

I squeeze my eyes shut and summon as much cheer as I can manage.

“Perhaps Mr. Mellark suffers a terminal illness and will make me a widow by the end of the year.”

“Perhaps,” Madge says although she does not sound convinced.

“It is not your fault, Madge,” I whisper, my voice a detached monotone. “You did not elope with Robert, nor did you encourage him to do so.”

“No. But I ignored the warnings in his behaviour.”

“What warnings?” I turn slightly in bed, a sudden cold feeling sweeping over me.

“I do not know how to explain it and perhaps it is the clarity of viewing past events and knowing the outcome now speaking, but Sir Robert’s suit was… lukewarm at best. So little passion for such haste. In truth, now that I think on it, Peeta showed more interest in you than Robert did.”

“Until the masquerade,” I remind her, ignoring what she says about Peeta. She sighs.

“Yes. That I cannot yet explain.”

I do not answer, unable to do so without expelling a torrent of sobs. I wait until I have control and by then, I am certain she is asleep and unable to hear me.

“Nor I.”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

I survive the second day of my engagement to Peeta Mellark and escape to the garden after the visitors cease their torment, using the excuse of cutting flowers for the dinner table. The gardner who would usually attend the task gave no resistance when I asked, handing over her shears and basket with a soft look of pity. Bah. Does everyone know of my misfortunes in romance?

I need a distraction and the flowers oblige. I have half filled the basket when a sound alerts me to the presence of another. I expect Madge and scowl when I see Peeta walking towards me. His gait is uneven and he moves with a pronounced limp. Good. While I do not know the source of his injury, I do know that he deserves some pain for what he and his brother have done to me.

“You are late for visits. We are fresh out of tea, and I will not be inviting you to dinner.”

“Miss Everdeen,” he says as he stops near me.

“Have you come to make more demands then? Is marrying you not enough?”

“I did not want this any more than you.”

I do not even try to contain my sound of disbelief. “You did not want Robert to marry me. You made no secret of that, and now you have exactly what you wanted.”

“Not like this. I did not want this,” he insists. I choose to ignore him now. Maybe then he will leave. “I merely wanted to be sure that he would not fall in love with someone who could not and would not love him in return.”

The silence stretches between us, broken only by the songs of birds and the faint noises of traffic on the street in front of the house. 

“You garden as a hobby?” Peeta asks, clearly not taking my hints that I wish him to be gone. I resign myself to attempting conversation.

“I suppose that is not a suitable hobby for the wife of a Marquis’ illegitimate son in your mind?”

“I have nothing against gardening.”

“Thank goodness. My continuation of my favorite activities was hanging by the thin thread of your approval.”

“You dislike me.”

“No more than you dislike me,” I say and examine a few stems instead of looking at him.

“I do not dislike you at all, Miss Everdeen,” he says softly.

“Good heavens!” I say and lean back, sheltering my eyes from the sun with one hand to look up at him. “Such high praise! I would hate to see how you treat someone who has earned your disdain.”

He makes a strange growling noise of frustration in his throat. “Despite what you may think, I find you...intriguing and...enchanting. I do not wish for either of us to be miserable in our lives together. If you could find it in your heart to give me a chance—“

The snorting, indignant huff of disbelief I make cuts off his words and he finally ceases. I am quite tired of seeing Peeta Mellark, I think as I stand, brushing dirt off my hands onto my skirts since in my haste to escape, I forgot gloves. Effie would be furious at the dirt I leave on my skirts, especially in the presence of a gentleman, but if we’re going to be married, he might as well know what he’s getting.

I have always preferred feeling the plants and the soil, the life between my fingers anyways.

“A chance to do what?”

“Tell you the truth, for starters.”

“By all means, do share,” I throw my arms wide and let them fall to my sides. “I cannot see how it could possibly make anything worse. What excuse will you give for your brother courting and misleading a lady only to discard her the day after he proposes, I wonder. It is certain to be quite entertaining.”

“Robert was gone mere hours after he proposed to you.” A stab of pain lances across my chest at this. I shake my head to deny the words that pour from Peeta’s mouth. “He never made it to the masquerade at all.”

“No.” I keep shaking my head, hoping that it will make this nightmare stop. “No I saw him there. He...”

“That wasn't Robert,” Peeta whispers and his fingers trace mine, exactly as the man in the mask did that night. My heart revolts against what he is saying. “Katniss—“

“No!” I shout and step away from him, snatching up my shears again. “You are not allowed to address me so! You and your kin have lied to me, used me most horribly, insulted me, and played with my heart! You have taken away what little choice I had in to whom and when I am married! You are not allowed to speak my name thus!”

I spin back to my plants and grasp a rose by the stem then yelp as the thorn pricks me. 

“Bastard roses!” I screech, bringing my hand to my chest and dropping the shears.

“Even the flowers meet your disapproval in their wanton ways of pollinating.” Peeta reaches out and grasps my hand. We engage in a brief tussle for control of my wrist, but he unfortunately wins with a glare reminiscent of the way my mother used to look at me when I would not sit still to have a scrape cleaned and dressed. “You have gotten a pair of thorns embedded in your palm. Come with me.”

Pain and heartache make me too weak to resist. I should kick him but am suddenly sapped of the strength to do so. Surely an effect of my outburst.

He leads me towards a rain barrel and produces a handkerchief and after assuring me that it is clean, dips the elegant cloth into the rain water. He gently cleans the cuts on my palm. My pulse turns erratic as he blows on the cuts to dry them, wiping away more dirt. I watch as his pristine white cloth grows dark with earth and my blood. 

“This may hurt a little,” he warns and he slides a knife out from I've no idea where. I gasp, stunned at the quick flash of metal. “Apologies. Habit from--”

“The infantry?” I ask and he nods. I take a deep breath and give him permission. “Proceed.”

I turn my head away so I need not watch. As comfortable as I am with the blood of animals, human blood -- in particular mine or that of anyone I love -- never fails to make me nauseous. 

“For shame on the flowers. Fraternizing with the bees,” he murmurs as I barely feel a prick or two and then slight pressure. 

I snort at this and shove the laughter down deep. I will not give him the satisfaction of my laughter as his warm palm cradles mine, loose enough to not hurt me but tight enough to prevent my escape. For me to feel the calluses on his skin and the caress of his thumb over mine in a soothing gesture. The touch feels familiar although I dismiss that as a trick caused by his words. I refuse to believe it was Peeta at the masquerade that night. I can only withstand so many blows to my heart.

“They are Aunt Effie’s favourite but, I am not fond of roses,” I gasp out and he lifts his head to look at me.

“Because they are so...scandalous?” he asks with a teasing smile lifting the corner of his lips. I fight back my own smile. I will not smile for him. I will not fall for more of his deception.

“No. Because their scent is overwhelming and sticks in the nostrils, eventually growing foul. They are quite common. Everyone seems to hand them out as gifts and has them planted in their gardens.”

“So you prefer more extraordinary blooms.”

“No.” I say, and he seems to be waiting for more.

“Perhaps something more wild and native to your home then.”

I cannot breathe. The intense way he looks at me wraps around me and squeezes the air from my lungs.

“Why do you care?”

“Because like you, I do not wish to marry a stranger, nor a person who cannot even stand my presence, regardless of the circumstances of engagement.”

He has been holding my hand for longer than necessary and gazing into my eyes for certainly much too long and yet I cannot seem to break the connections. I cough and nod towards our hands. “Are the thorns out?”

“Yes.” He lets go my hand then and steps away from me, only to remove his cravat. I am too speechless to ask what the devil he is doing. “And I do believe that you will live.”

“I am relieved to hear it,” I say and Peeta laughs. At my words or my tone, I cannot be sure, and I am too distracted by his state of undress and then by the awful ripping sounds as he uses the knife to cut a length of silk from his neck cloth. Setting aside the knife, he once more takes my hand in his and uses the strip of silk to bandage my hand.

“We have bandages inside,” I croak. He pauses in his work and I shake my head. “No, I do not know if Aunt Effie keeps any. My mother does, at home.”

He finishes his task while I stare at the scars that are normally hidden beneath his collar and that disappear beneath his shirt. How far down his body do they extend, I wonder, and does he already know of mine? The garden is unbearably warm this afternoon.

“There,” he says and then says my name like a plea, but I shake my head and return to the rose bushes. 

“I do not wish to be miserable in matrimony either, Mr. Mellark. Dishonesty is something I cannot abide.”

“I have not lied to you.”

“Either you were deceiving me several nights ago at the masquerade or you are deceiving me now.” I turn back to judge his reaction. He clenches his jaw and turns one direction then another. 

“It is more complicated than that. My only excuse for the masquerade is that I meant to protect my brother and I… became distracted.”

“How convenient, sir.”

“I cannot convince you?”

“No.”

“Shall I return tomorrow then? Perhaps you might enjoy a ride in the park, beneath the trees.”

I squint at him and shake my head. “A good attempt, sir, but that will not work. Robert could have told you everything that passed between us.”

“Not everything.” 

My cheeks heat as he steps closer. Close enough for me to feel the heat shifting in the air around us, the currents I felt the other night reborn and charged with animosity rather than desire this time. No, it is a trick. I am feeling things that are not there, influenced by his deception.

I cannot stand the feelings and turn away from him to snip off a few more blooms without paying much attention to their quality and lay them in my basket to take inside. 

“I want no deception between us as well, Miss Everdeen. The simple truth is that Robert was long gone when I found your note to him about the ball. Realising that you would be expecting him and questions on his whereabouts might be raised before Ethan could reach him, I was sent to...distract you."

"Who sent you? Your charming father? It's preposterous and you really expect me to believe that?"

"If you cannot believe me, then I shall refrain from speaking of it again, but it is the truth.”

“Then you’re off?” I say, unable to account for the sinking feeling inside me.

“Not yet. There is one more matter I wish to discuss with you before I leave you be.” I pause in my flower gathering long enough for him to take it as approval to continue. “I imagine you are anxious to return home to see to your father, your mother and sister, as well as the needs of your home. If you wish, I would join you at Everdeen in a week’s time. A small wedding at your home where your family could be present might suit best. If not, you can return here once you’ve seen to your responsibilities, and we can be wed at that time.”

“You are giving me a choice?” I turn slightly to face him.

“I leave it solely in your hands.”

I flounder for words, stunned by the gesture of handing me control, however little it may be.

“You do not need to choose now. Think on it and let me know.” He hands me a folded piece of paper, bows, and then departs, still limping slightly. 

It takes several minutes after he has left for me to brave looking at the paper. He has written a fully addressed letter, sealed and all, and in the corner is his direction, so that I might write him my answer.

I stuff the letter in my pocket without reading it and hurry inside, deciding what flowers I have already cut will suffice. I will need to begin packing immediately and speak to Madge, Uncle Haymitch, and any number of servants if we are to leave for Everdeen first thing on the marrow.

I am going home.


	8. Chapter 8

Saying farewell to Effie and Haymitch turns out to be a more difficult task than I expected. Haymitch quietly reminds me to keep him informed, that he and Effie both wish to be at my wedding, wherever I decide it will be held. The absence of any sarcastic comment from him unnerves me. 

“Aunt Effie despises the country,” I say and Haymitch shrugs.

“She will brave the monotony for your wedding.” He winks then and I manage a small smile before he helps me into the carriage. 

I find myself leaning out the window as we pull away, watching them grow smaller until we turn a corner and I can no longer see them. I will miss them, I realise when they vanish from view. As badly as my husband hunt turned out in the details, it was successful. I am engaged to be married, and there is no taking that back now. My success, questionable though it may be, is in large part due to their help. Now I simply have to learn to live with the consequences. 

I settle into my seat and find Madge watching me. Unable to find the words I need to broach the thousands of things we should speak on, I turn vacant eyes back out the window, onto the street. We are silent as the buildings thin and then eventually fall away altogether.

The removal of their restrictive presence allows me space to breathe. Trees rise up around us, meadows and fields reach towards the horizon as though they might touch the sky if they could but grow fingers. I feel as I do at the end of the day, when a corset is removed and my body sings in relief.

This is where I belong.

“What shall you do first when we return to Everdeen?”

“Take Sagittaria out for a long ride, I should think,” I murmur and Madge hums. I frown as I realise how that must sound. “After seeing my family, of course.”

“Of course.”

“You must be happy to be seeing Maysilee.”

“Katniss, I know I failed you as a chaperone and as a friend. I should have seen more, advised caution instead of encouraging the haste--”

“I do not mean it as a criticism,” I say and turn back to her. It strikes me then how fortunate I am that Madge returned to my life at such a time. Without her, I would have no real friend. I cannot bear to have the events of the past month cause a rift between us. “I am not yet ready to talk about it, but we will. There will be time enough before the damned wedding to beat the subject to death with a spoon.”

“A soup spoon or custard spoon?”

“Well no need to make it difficult on ourselves, so I suppose a soup spoon.”

Madge laughs at this, although I am unable to join her just yet. After that, we are more like ourselves, able to converse and even smile. I avoid all thoughts of Robert and our night at the masquerade, if it even was him. Thinking on the questions that remain will no doubt make me mad. Whether that is a furious mad or an insane mad, I have not yet decided and am not yet ready to explore the possibilities. An ache resides in my chest every time I think on it, yet the further away from Capitol that we drive, the less it disturbs me.

Peeta Mellark and my pending marriage to him is a problem I will have to face eventually, but for now I must focus on more pressing issues.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

We ride our horses the last few miles, enjoying the fresh air and the perfumes of summer at Everdeen. I crane my neck to survey a few of the fields and check on the progress of our crops. All seems well enough, yet I cannot shake this feeling that something had gone amiss in my absence. 

Primrose and Maysilee greet us at the front stairs. Matching smiles grace their faces. Madge, in her haste to dismount and greet her daughter, startles Diablo and is nearly trampled under hoof. The three of them talk over one another as Prim attempts to spill half a dozen stories while Madge showers Maysilee with kisses and affection. 

When I finally manage to dismount, Prim ceases her chatter and embraces me. “We have missed you! I want to hear all about your time in Capitol. You were quite stingy with the details in your letters. Who is your betrothed?”

“We’ll talk about that later,” I wave the topic away. “How is our father?”

“The same, I am afraid. Doctor Aurelius worries about muscular deterioration and bed sores, but Mother has been working to prevent both. He says that Father could not have a better nurse.” Well at least she is managing well, I think but do not voice it. I can see in the way Prim shifts her eyes that she is keeping something from me. No matter. I will find out soon enough.

“Miss Everdeen!” A strange male voice calls and I look up to see a man on horseback approaching. Prim mutters angrily under her breath and releases me. “Miss Everdeen! We meet at last!”

“Have you found it then?” Prim asks him and he shakes his head.

“I did not. I found purple blooms with yellow markings but they did not possess blue thorns.”

“Well then back out to the woods with you, sir! I will need those flowers for dinner this evening as they are my sister’s favourite!” It is a bold faced lie and I search my memory for any flower I know of that matches the description. I come up with nothing.

“Miss Primrose, I think you send me on a fruitless hunt.”

“I would never!” Prim yells and I decide it is time I gain control of whatever mess this is.

“Excuse me sir. Who are you to accuse my sister so?”

“Your pardon, Miss Everdeen. I am your cousin,” he states and dismounts with a wide smile and, sweeping his hat from his head, bows low to the ground. “Rory Hawthorne at your service.”

I turn murderous eyes on Prim for a moment at this revelation and she wilts in front of me. “We will discuss this later,” I seethe and move closer to my dear cousin as he stands and staggers back. He could almost pass for our brother with his dark hair and gray eyes so like mine. He is objectively quite handsome and yet I wish that I were able to spit on his boots and send him packing.

“You were not meant to be here so early. In case no one bothered to mention it, my father yet lives. This is still our land, not yours.”

“I -- that is -- my schedule permitted a change and--”

“Your schedule permitted a change and yet you did not bother to ascertain if a change to ours was acceptable? Good sir, I do hope you’ve not been staying here while I’ve been gone… with my sister…  _ unchaperoned _ .”

Primrose gasps and Madge sniggers softly as Rory Hawthorne gapes at me.

“No! I would not dare put Miss Primrose’s reputation at stake. But your mother--”

I cross my arms over my chest and glower at him. He gulps and then his mouth flaps open then snaps shut on repeat.

“Good sir, while I find your imitation of a trout quite amusing, you are wasting my time. I am weary from several days’ travel and have tasks to see to. If there is nothing else then?” I turn towards the house without allowing him a chance to answer.

“I am staying at the inn in Seam!” he blurts out and I glance back for just long enough that he gains control of his flapping jaw.

“I hear they serve an excellent dinner. Good day, Mr. Hawthorne. Come along Primrose, Countess Hargrove. I shall need both of you this afternoon. We shall all be much too busy to entertain.” Madge’s eyes widen and she curtsies to me. I try not to laugh as we sweep into the house, leaving Mr. Hawthorne to retrieve his jaw from the ground.

“Katniss!” Primrose hisses as the door closes behind us and Madge releases her laughter. “Good heavens what happened in the city? You were like a fire breathing dragon just now! Poor Mr. Hawthorne!”

“Poor Mr. Hawthorne nothing. The nerve of him, visiting and viewing the properties as though they already belong to him. I won’t give him a second before father is dead and buried to prepare our home for chopping to pieces and auctioning.”

“That is not why he is here!” Prim purses her lips, her cheeks a brilliant pink. I take note of her behaviour and wonder at it. Has Mr. Hawthorne been courting my sister, I wonder? I’ve no chance to pry.

“Katniss? Is that you I hear?” Mother’s voice floats to me down the stairs and I turn in her direction. I have to swallow a gasp at her appearance. She seems so… drained. So thin and pale, her normally glossy hair a dull shade and kept back in a messy coiffure. Still, she hurries down the stairs and embraces me. “Oh my darling, I am so happy to have you home. Your father needs you. Perhaps if you could spare time to sing for him, it might help revive him. He did always love singing with you.”

She releases me with a choked sob and I mumble out some sort of pathetic agreement to sing to my comatose father.

“Oh but where is your new husband?”

“I am not married yet, Mama. Only betrothed.”

“Will we not meet this man, then? Your letter revealed nothing! Oh but we can begin work on your dress at least. I know it shan’t be as fashionable as what Effie would see you dressed in --”

“Mama, I --”

“--but you shall be a beautiful bride no matter --”

“Mellark!” The name escapes me in a near shout and my mother lifts a hand to her throat, blinking at me as though clearing smoke from her eyes. “His name is Peeta Mellark.”

“One of Reginald’s sons?”

“Oh is he the one who rescued you that day?”

“Yes,” I croak and Madge saves me, handing her precious child right back to Prim and wrapping an arm around me.

“It has been a long day of travel. We both could do with some rest and then we will share stories tonight. We have so many!” The falseness of the cheer in Madge’s voice is lost on my family. They smile and agree, happy to let us go, assuming that they shall learn the entire story this evening.

Once the tub is filled with steaming water and scented soap, my clothes discarded, I climb in and sink beneath the surface, wondering if it is possible to drown in bath water. I blow out bubbles that are annoyingly anticlimactic given the level of my frustration as I expel my breath into the water.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

I immerse myself in the work of keeping Everdeen running smoothly. The more tasks I complete, the freer I feel. A week passes before I realise it, swallowed whole in the work of managing home and farm, as well as dealing with the lamentable presence of Mr. Hawthorne. 

It becomes apparent to me, within a matter of days, that Mr. Hawthorne is rather fond of my sister. He lingers at her side to assist in even the most mundane of chores, regardless of how pleasant her mood. She blushes at the attention and yet it is not a demeaning blush. When he stumbles underfoot and I open my mouth to cut him to size and remind him that he has no right to be here while my father lives, that it is rude to linger about waiting for a good man to die, it is Primrose who rushes in to assist him. The words die in my throat every time that he thanks her and her blush deepens.

“How long do you wish to stay here?” I ask one afternoon. Prim makes a face at me until he turns to her, as though seeking her approval. She grants him a lovely smile and then a sharp glare, as though her manners win first but then something else takes over.

“Not much longer, I should think,” he says. “In truth, my brother Gale expected me days ago. I wrote my excuses already--”

“You should not keep your brother waiting so,” I say and ignore the strange glance that Madge gives me.

When he finally parts, promising to visit again soon to assure himself of our well being, he also whispers a promise to Primrose that he shall write, expressly to her. In his presence and even in his absence, she seems to walk and speak with a certain assurance, stand with greater height, although that may well be due to natural growth, but I cannot help but mourn the passing of her childhood, nor can I help the fear that perhaps Rory Hawthorne will be her first love, only to have those hopes destroyed when he auctions off our home one piece at a time.

And yet, despite my reservations about my sister and Mr. Hawthorne, I cannot help feeling jealous of them, cannot help comparing their behaviour to mine and that of the man in the mask on that one, exquisite night. 

No, not jealous, I remind myself each time the bite of green threatens to triumph. 

“You could have been more pleasant to him. It’s not his fault his brother will inherit Everdeen.”

“And yet you sent him looking for a flower that does not exist,” I remind her.

“To keep him away for your return! I knew you would not wish to see him as soon as you came home.”

“Or you knew I would be upset at you withholding knowledge of his presence.” Prim purses her lips and does not attempt to deny my accusations. I sigh at her pink cheeks and bright eyes. She has the look of someone in love. “I would prefer it if you allowed yourself more time and a wider acquaintance before settling on a husband, Prim.”

“Who said anything about a husband?” she practically screeches and then flees the room.

“You’re only going to drive her into his arms faster if you forbid it,” Madge whispers and I lose it then.

“Well then what’s your grand idea?”

“It would not be so bad if they were to fall in love. Perhaps then his brother would take pity and give Everdeen to Rory.”

For one second, I sound as though I am gagging on food. “I will not sell my sister into marriage to keep the farm.”

“I did not suggest that,” Madge says with a slight bite in her tone. “Katniss, you have not been yourself since we returned. Prim was right that first day. You are like a dragon breathing fire at nearly every turn.”

“I am not,” I insist. Quite convincingly.

On some days, I attempt to sit with my father, to relieve my mother and my sister the burden of tending him, but I find that I cannot stay long. I cannot bear to see him so, not when my heart aches so and worries continue to weigh my shoulders down. I long to speak with him, to unburden my cares as I am so used to doing.

I stay silent during my time with him. Another week passes.

The gardens become a favourite haunt of mine. I examine their cultivated beds and consider changes to make the gardens more like the wildflower meadows, if slightly more tamed. It is on one such afternoon as I wander down the rows that Primrose nearly scares me half to death and once more, the tenuous situation we find ourselves in is thrown into sharp relief.

“Katniss! Katniss come quick!”

I grab fistfuls of skirt, crushing the fabric in my palms as I race up the stairs, panting hard as I reach the upper level and Prim motions me into my father’s room.

“His hand moved! I swear I saw his hand move!”

“Papa. It’s Primrose. Can you hear us? Do you think he can hear us?”

“Send for the doctor!” my mother orders and then grabs my arm, clinging to it for one desperate moment, her eyes wild. Then I become invisible, standing aside as mother and Prim, and Doctor Aurelius once he arrives, hover over my father.

Hours pass with no change. No movement, only a whispered conversation between my mother and Doctor Aurelius that causes her to sob once then flee the room in tears.

“Mama!” Primrose races after her and Doctor Aurelius shakes his head.

“There is not much hope, is there?” I ask and the doctor sighs.

“I still can promise you nothing, Miss Everdeen. But from a medical perspective, no. There is not much hope. You should make preparations. Quietly if you do not wish to cause your mother more pain.”

That evening, I sit vigil, staring at my father’s fingers and willing them to move, to prove my mother right. But it is no use. By morning, all I have are itchy eyes, a distraught mother, and the overwhelming desire to crawl into a cave to sleep my life away. 

But I cannot. Instead, I have Charles, one of the grooms saddle Sagittaria and escape into nature.

Sagittaria snorts in delight and chomps at the reins. She is, as I am, eager to gallop across the fields and to regain the time lost to our confinement in the city, or perhaps some sense of the world. The fragrant, smog free air rejuvenates me and I am better able to see clearly my situation and I am finally able to make decisions regarding the hundreds of problems I am faced with.

I cannot and should not be jealous of my sister, although I admit to myself that I have been feeling so lately. I made my choice for a marriage of convenience out of necessity, specifically to give her the luxury of time and the freedom to pursue a true love match. I do not regret my choice, even if the manner of it’s unfolding leaves much to be desired. I shall simply have to observe and counsel but not control the path of Prim’s relations with Mr. Hawthorne.

Madge is correct on yet another thing as well. As loathe as I am to admit it, the more days that pass with no word from Peeta, the more agitated I become. I cannot stall forever. I will have to marry him eventually, and I would prefer it to be on my own terms as much as is possible, rather than have him wander down the lane one day to insist he grows tired of waiting and demand my hand.

He left the choice in my hands, and so I shall choose. I struggle with it only a little as I brush Sagittaria with a touch too much vigour, angry with my limited options. She dances away from me and into the wall of her stall as I sigh and apologize to her. I should not exercise my frustrations on her. 

My father still lies on the brink of death with no security for my sister, my mother, or myself on the other side of death. To say nothing of Madge and Maysilee as well as the several hundreds or so who have come to rely on Everdeen as their source of livelihood. With purposeful movements, I finish with Sagittaria and head straight for the study, not bothering to change from my riding habit as I sit at the desk and pen a letter.

_ Dearest future husband, _

_ If we must be wed, then I would prefer to accomplish the distasteful deed here at my home. Though I risk ruining fond memories of the hills and the forests in doing so, I would rather have my mother and sister present at the blessed occasion. Send word post haste as to when I should expect you and we shall have a room and a wedding prepared for your arrival. _

_ Sincerely, _

_ Your dearest future wife _

I stare at the words and then scrawl a messy post script.

_ Shall I expect any members of your loving family at this joyous ceremony? _

A quick fold and seal then I search the desk for the letter he gave me before parting in Capitol, so that I might copy the direction. As I pull it from the back of a drawer, I scowl at the thing. I never opened it, too angry and heartsick over the manner of our engagement and the loss of the man in the mask...or rather Robert. I do not know which and rub my temples in confusion. 

I never read this letter.

It seems to burn my palms as I stare at it. I drop it on the desk, copy the direction and then shove it back into the dark recesses of the drawer. I then sit there and consider burning it, gleefully watching the flames eat the parchment and Peeta’s words.

Instead, I leave it fester in the dark. I rise and take my letter to the hall, depositing it on the small stack of mail to be sent this afternoon. I then join my family in the orchard where they have gathered to enjoy the sunshine and breeze.

“We have work to do. I have summoned the betrothed.”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

_ My darling future wife, _

_ How pleasing to receive your letter. I did not realize you capable of such romanticism. Thankfully, I am not too much engaged in business at this time and will be able to join you at Everdeen no later that the 30th of this month.  _

_ The Marquise de Vale shall not be joining us for our wedding as he is much too busy this time of year. I shall, however travel with one companion. A stable hand who is indispensable to me and whom you have already met. My brother Henry and his family -- you do recall I told you of him -- expresses a desire to be present as well, although this depends on the date of the nuptials. _

_ I do hope this shall be agreeable. I am not inclined to arrive only to meet you at the altar. Perhaps some time is needed before we say any vows. I look forward to discussing this with you at length. _

_ Your ever loving future husband, _

_ ~ Peeta ~ _

I am gnashing my teeth before I even reach the end. The words almost spur me to tearing the letter into the tiniest of pieces. Or perhaps I shall dance on it in indignant rage, as he suggested I do with the letter explaining the gift of my boots I now wear. Then I read his post script.

_ I promise that Joe will not cut any laces on any more of your boots unless it is a matter of life and death. _


	9. Chapter 9

In the coming days, I have little time for leisure. I am furthermore unable to decide what preparations are necessary for the arrival of my betrothed. Etiquette dictates that we put forth the best Everdeen has to offer. I do not see the point. The man I am to marry has already accused me of fortune hunting. He expects some disrepair and would likely question the presence of too much luxury or well being. Let him see then what he no doubt believes of me -- gentile poverty and desperation drove my actions in the Capitol.

There is also the small matter that I have no desire to impress him. Why should I? This marriage is not a celebration but an unfortunate necessity. And he has seen me covered in mud after all.

My mother is appalled when I override several of her mandates, lessening the preparations to what one might be able to get away with your closest of friends paying a last minute visit — someone who knows every detail of your life and shall not pass judgement if a few things are neglected, so long as they are welcomed with love. In truth, I am inviting Peeta’s judgement. It would give me cause to hate him more.

“We are not welcoming a prince, Mother. Please cease wasting everyone’s time on pointless chores.”

She fumes silently and motions for poor Hannah to continue polishing silver fixtures in the house that no one has noticed before and that I doubt Peeta will notice unless it is to comment on our financial situation like the bastard he is. I almost wish my mother would return to weeping over my father’s bedside if that would give me peace.

When I do find leisure time, I spend it with Madge, Maysilee, and my sister. They are a solace of joy and laughter in the chaos of my thoughts. Every day Madge spends here, she grows more beautiful, freer with her words and laughter. I cannot help but compare my situation to hers. She is resurrected after being freed from the shackles of an unwanted marriage while I am facing my doom in entering one.

Other times, I pore over the letters that Effie and Haymitch have sent from town since I left them. Hers carry a bright enthusiasm as she details all the reactions to the altered announcement, the many visitors she has had and all of the well wishes for a happy marriage for me. She effuses repeatedly at how she so looks forward to my wedding. It rings so bright as to sound false to my eyes as I read. I know she cannot be happy at the idea of my binding myself to a bastard, nor at the turn of events after her own insistence that Sir Robert was clearly besotted with me.

Clearly he was not.

Haymitch’s letters carry a different sort of message entirely. Faced with the certainty of my upcoming vows to Mr. Peeta Mellark, Haymitch has embarked on a quest for knowledge, which I likely should have done rather than departing town in such haste. Haymitch writes of a different sort of courtship, one between a man and a father figure to the girl he wishes to marry. Haymitch writes accounts of Peeta’s conduct in my absence, their many conversations, and peppered in between anecdotes are more personal details that make it clear to me… Haymitch has hired a man to investigate my betrothed and discover his secrets.

_ I can find nothing to persuade me this match will be a disaster. His finances are sound. No debts, no disturbing addictions, no reports of uncontrolled temper, no mistresses even. My only complaint is that I was required to pay more attention whilst playing chess these past few weeks as your affianced is quite the strategist. No bourbon with a pleasant chess match in the evenings for me when Mr. Mellark sits across the board, unfortunately. I must have my wits about me or suffer pathetic losses. In fact, the only secret he seems to harbor is not much of a secret at all — the truth of his parentage — although I’ve not been able to ascertain the identity of his birth mother, so perhaps there is a secret there, but the basic nature of his parentage is common knowledge. Overall, he is most forthcoming with his life with the Mellark family when asked and my investigations confirm all of what he has told me. I recommend you ask him yourself at the first opportunity. _

_ Katniss, my dear girl, I am endeavoring to say that you could do much worse where husbands are concerned. He is as distraught over the circumstances of your engagement as are you. In support of this, I have received several reports of discord in his father’s home that have led me to believe this engagement has caused a rift of sorts within the family. Be at ease and attempt to make the best of your situation. You set out to gain a fortune to support yourself and your sister. You have done that. Your betrothed is now nearly as wealthy as the rest of his clan, legitimately born or not. There is no need for you to cause more trouble. You and he have more in common that could unite you than you realise. _

_ Tell my sister I shall see her soon, and tell your father he’s the devil to pay for what I’ve endured in his stead, if he ever wakes. _

_ ~ Uncle Haymitch. _

Haymitch’s words annoy me at first reading, then strangely enough bring me marginal relief on second or third perusal. Perhaps my future is not so bleak as I’d imagined. Yet, it is not enough to prevent the final break in my composure.

A guest room is prepared for Peeta, but I also find myself tripping over servants and my mother in my own room two days before my betrothed is expected. The room is in complete disarray, my belongings shoved into boxes and crates and set aside to allow room for the work being done.

“What is the meaning of this?” I ask and my mother leads me aside so that the maids may continue without her.

“I dare not move your father from his room in his health. Until other arrangements can be made, you and your husband will have to share your chambers for some time after the wedding. For now while we make the changes to your room, you can sleep with Madge.”

“I cannot share a room with him!” I gape at the bed where I so often felt safe and shall soon feel betrayed, and then at my mother as she scowls at me, opening her mouth to no doubt lecture me. I am saved by a servant with a query for her and flee the room before I am presented with any more reminders of the upheaval in my future.

This one is intensely personal. In all my time of bemoaning my fate and nursing my fury at Peeta for trapping me in this situation, I had not even considered the expectations that now loom over my body.

I escape to the woods. The world seems to shrink around me as I consider the ramifications of my actions and curse my own stubborn naïveté. Madge’s words about not wanting my marriage to be like hers rise up to taunt me.

I’ve no idea what Peeta will expect on our wedding night. Likely he will expect what all grooms assume as their rights. My body, my submission. Here I planned to say the vows and be done with it as soon as he arrived and now, confronted with the likely path of events for that choice, I find myself regretting it. We are still strangers, Peeta and I. Haymitch’s findings aside, I know so little of the man I am expected to spend my life with that I cannot fathom giving myself over to him in such an intimate way.

Except… Peeta himself expressed a wish to wait. 

Time. Yes, time is what I need and if he is willing to grant it, I shall take it. At least a little time to better prepare myself.

Resolved, I am able to stand and manage to even hunt a little as well as set a few snares for smaller animals. 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The changes wrought to my room over the next few days do little to assuage my concerns. If anything, they heighten them. New furniture has been added, and several of the furnishings as well as nearly all of the linens have been replaced. The light, airy, welcoming feel of my girlhood chambers has vanished on the fragrant summer breeze that enters through the window and sweeps away any innocence left in my mind. It is now the room of a married woman.

I escape to the woods as I always have, uncaring that I now risk missing entirely the arrival of my betrothed. Let him fumble with the introductions to my family and let them see what a brute and bastard he is, I fume, ignoring Haymitch’s analysis of Peeta’s character. What would my uncle know? He is a man and views Peeta’s character as a man would, not as a woman would.

I linger far too long in the woods, but excuse the lapse in my manners with the success of my hunt. We shall have an excellent dinner as shall the servants. They deserve it for all the hard work they’ve accomplished the past weeks, not only in preparing for our guests but also for their diligent care of my father.

“There’s a brace of rabbits and two ducks in the bag, Horatio. See them cleaned and to the kitchen?”

“Yes Miss.” I peel off my gloves and use my sleeve to wipe sweat from my brow. The week has turned blazing hot. No sign of rain in several days has me worried about several of the more delicate herbs we grow. “There is lemonade if you would like a glass. Countess and Miss Primrose have taken several to the verandah already to keep watch for our guests.”

“Thank you, Horatio.” I smile at the lad and help myself to a cup of the tart drink before walking slowly to the verandah. I am a mess at the moment, hair falling from what began as a careful braid, wrapped and pinned tightly to my scalp. Thick strands now stick to my neck, soaked in sweat. Dirt and blood grace the folds of my skirt and it is entirely possible that I have some on my face as well. I’ve perspired straight through the fabric and am certain it shows beneath my arms. I rub at my shoulder where an ache and an itch has settled, and pausing at the edge of the shaded stone area, smile at the sight that greets me. 

Primrose and Maysilee play while Madge looks on, sipping her lemonade. Mary sits working diligently on some mending. All four of them wear smiles on their faces and laugh at Maysilee as she chatters on, twirling a flower in her pudgy toddler fingers and squealing about an insect that lands on the petals. 

Content and happy. This is how I wish them to remain, without weighty cares. That is for me to bear, not them. This reminder of what is to be gained soothes the agitation I have felt the past few days as I watched the preparations for the arrival of  _ Miss Everdeen’s betrothed _ . The servants, unaware of the circumstances of our engagement, have worked themselves into an excitement I cannot bear to contain nor hope to control. They are convinced it must be a great love match, given the speed with which it occurred. After all, my parents were a love match.

They believe my marriage will bring such a blessing on our household that will surely mean the turn of fortune for us all. Health for my father, a bountiful harvest. Would that I could promise them such a thing. I cannot, but the spark of hope already burns deep in their hearts. I do not wish to smother it.

“Oh! Look!” Prim exclaims and hurries to the low wall surrounding the verandah. 

“What is it?” Madge asks.

“Dust in the lane! He’s here! Mary! Tell Katniss and Mother that he’s here!”

Mary scurries to put her mending away and curtsies as she passes by me, a wide smile on her face as my sister leans over the wall to catch a glimpse. I do not need one. I am already aware of what he looks like on a horse and make my way to the door instead.

Well I suppose there are worse things than greeting my fiancé covered in dirt, sweat, and entrails. It is not like I am usually at my best when he sees me anyways.

“Oh, Katniss...should you change your dress or...freshen up a bit?” my mother asks as she meets me at the door. She eyes my appearance and seems appropriately scandalised. I lift my nose and glide outside the house to greet him.

“I think not.” He may as well be reminded first off of what sort of wife he’s getting. I shall not change for him.

Cicero comes to a plodding halt, and dips his head once, shaking his grey mane. If I expected them to dismount at the house, I was sorely mistaken.

“Miss Everdeen,” Peeta says with an incline of his head, and a small, ridiculous shiver runs through me as I curtsy. His mouth twitches and I cannot be certain if he’s laughing or frowning at me with his eyes obscured in the shadows created by his hat. I glare up at him and spit out my words.

“Welcome to Everdeen, Mr. Mellark. Won’t you dismount?” 

“Momentarily.” He nods once then looks past me. “You must be Mrs. Everdeen.”

“Yes,” my mother steps forward and from the back of his horse, Peeta manages to take her hand in his. At some sort of silent command, Cicero bends his front legs in imitation of a bow. Peeta mirrors the motion, bending at his torso over my mother’s hand like some knight of old.

“An honour to meet you, madame. Peeta Mellark at your service.”

“Oh,” my mother says, her cheeks turning pink in a way that is not caused by heat nor by the sun. I grind my teeth together and step forward to end this nonsense.

“Will you not dismount and come inside?” I ask through clenched teeth.

“We will see to our horses first, if that is alright.” It is then that I notice Joe, astride his dark brown with an impertinent grin on his face as he tips his hat to me. My hands wish for a bow and a swift arrow, but I manage to nod in agreement and stand back as they depart for the stables.

“My goodness, he is a handsome one,” my mother breathes as they ride toward the stable, her eyes fixed on Peeta’s back. “He takes after Reginald in looks but his manner of speaking… there’s something different and yet so pleasant about it… Where did you say he was educated?”

“I don’t believe he has been. He’s not a legitimate son,” I say and my mother spins to gape at me. My cheeks heat and I glance down at the ground. “Everything went so wrong, Mama. I do not know what to do.”

“Oh Katniss. I do not think it has all gone wrong at all,” she says and then laughs, winding an arm around me and turning me back towards the house. “Whatever it is, it is certainly salvageable.”

“Then... you are not scandalised?”

“Absolutely not. Surprised, yes. Scandalised, I should think not. Your Peeta had no control over the manner of his birth. No choice in the matter at all. The only thing he has control over is what manner of man he is.” My mother leans back and cranes her neck, as though seeking another glimpse of him. She chuckles and turns back to me as a scowl takes over my face. “And thus far, he appears to be a fine man indeed. He could not take his eyes from you and did not even balk at your ghastly appearance.”

“He was perhaps wondering why he agreed to marry such a wretch. Or dare I hope he actually felt apprehension at my fearsome appearance,” I mutter and my mother laughs. The sound courses through me like sweet wine. 

“No darling, I think not. He may take after Reginald in the shape and colour of his features, but that look in his eyes is not one his father ever displayed, to my knowledge.”

“You are imagining things where they do not exist,” I tell her sadly. I do not know why it is now that all of this spills from me as Mother walks with me up the stairs towards my room, not father’s. Perhaps I’ve held it in so long that it cannot be helped. Or perhaps I have indeed, truly missed my mother. She has seemed so absent recently, in her preoccupation first with my father and then with preparations for my wedding. “He only agreed to marry me to protect his brother from scandal.”

“You did not mention that,” Mother says and purses her lips as I scramble for words. She shakes her head and waves it away before I can manage to utter a single coherent syllable. “Perhaps that was one of his motivations, but men recover quite easily from scandal. It gives them an air of mystery and danger. They do not marry for such a small thing as that.” I stare at her and she gives me a secretive smile. “Unless I am a blind fool, protecting his brother was not his only motivation for agreeing to marry you, Katniss.”

I sputter and lay a hand over my stomach to control the writhing of nerves and feelings. Before I can work up a proper hysteria or denial at what her words might mean, before I can insist to her that he hates me, she speaks again. 

“Where did his scars originate from?”

“I do not know exactly. He spent some time in the infantry.”

“Hmmm, that is likely the source. Does he know of yours, darling?”

“I...no,” I admit and duck my head to hide my expression. “I never found occasion nor reason to tell him.” 

Unless Robert told him or… or perhaps Peeta spoke the truth and it was him at the masquerade. But that is such a quagmire in my head still that I am not ready to speak of it with anyone. I still have not even told Madge of Peeta’s preposterous claim.

“No matter. I doubt it shall bother him at all.” 

I think back on our last conversation, on his insistence that it was he at the masquerade, the soft touch of his fingers between mine and the warmth that even now seeps into my blood at the memory of touch, how he wanted to speak with me alone before we signed the contracts, and even what Madge said about how viewing it as the past, she thinks that Peeta showed more interest in me than Robert. And how I once again find myself in a position of knowing little to nothing about the man I am to marry, only this time, there will be no masquerade to loosen our guard. 

I nod to my mother, despite my lingering doubts, and enjoy her soft smile as she kisses my cheek. 

“Though you may wish to tell him before the wedding night. Now, change and wash your face, attempt some order with that hair, and I will see our guests settled in time for tea.” I watch her a moment as she departs, humming slightly to herself and I wonder at the change in her.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

I send word for Peeta to join me in the study once he has had time to freshen up from his travels then abscond to the room I have been sharing with Madge that I might do the same. When I am ready to face the coming battle, I march to the study only to find him already there and waiting for me. I stand in the doorway and watch him, hands folded behind his back as he wanders down the line of shelves heavy with books. He pauses at one title and tilts his head. I gather my skirts and interrupt before he takes on some fool notion that all of this shall be his.

“Mr. Mellark, I trust your journey was pleasant.”

“Quite,” he answers and turns to face me as I move to put the large, imposing desk between us. We’ve not been alone since that day in the gardens, when he made his preposterous claim in regards to the masquerade. I feel as though I have lived a thousand years since then and do not wish to lose my wits for what I am about to say.

“We have matters to discuss,” I say as he comes to stand on the other side of the desk. I lift my chin, pleased with this arrangement, the reminder to him that he is a guest here, and not a wholly welcome guest.

“Shall we skip the idle chit chat then?”

“I think that the best course.”

“By all means then, Miss Everdeen, cut to the heart and let us be done with it. You’ve already made it quite clear you do not wish to marry me, so no need to repeat that.”

“You are a stranger to me yet, Mr. Mellark.”

“Not as much of a stranger as you think.”

“So you still hold to that ridiculous claim?”

“Why is it so ridiculous?”

“Ridiculous or not, it means that I cannot trust you. You have already lied to me at least once.” At this, he has the dignity to hang his head.

“Indeed I have no defense for that other than it was done in protection of someone I care for deeply.”

“What am I to believe, Mr. Mellark? If it was in fact you behind that mask, then how much of what you said was in the name of the act? How much of it was you pretending to be Sir Robert and how much of it was truth--”

“I did not speak a single lie that night at the masquerade,” he says and lifts his eyes to mine. They flash with a warmth and near anger that nearly overwhelms me. I stagger back a step and then regroup. “I attempted to emulate my brother and failed horribly. The only falsehood in it was in allowing you to believe that I was Robert, not myself.”

“It does not matter,” I insist. “What matters is that if it was you, you knowingly and purposely deceived me that night, and if it was not you, you outright lie in trying to claim it was. To what purpose, I cannot fathom, but either way, you have deceived me and therefore, I cannot trust you.”

“And what of you, madame? Can you swear that all of your actions in regards to my brother were honest?”

“That is none of your concern. It is between Sir Robert and myself.”

“I think it is of my concern seeing as how I am now the one who will be speaking vows with you.”

“We are clearly not going to agree on this matter.” I sit in the chair and stubbornly pull papers in front of me, hot fury boiling inside me at his insinuations that I somehow misled Robert. He knew precisely what sort of marriage I expected. I played no games with his heart.

Except that I went to that masquerade with intentions to kiss him...or court him in a way, and he eloped after. I rub my temples and sigh, unsure of myself and how to handle this tricky matter. Peeta echoes the sound and sits opposite me, his hand rubbing his left thigh as if it pains him.

“You are quite right, Miss Everdeen.”

“Am I?” I ask with a soft snort.

“I set out to protect Robert and yet my motivations became...confused and entangled along the road. I cannot remove the deceptions that already exist between us, nor erase any hurt I may have caused you in the process. I can only hope to prove to you through time and devotion that I am worthy of your trust.” His words stun me and our eyes lock. His seem so sad and sincere, almost pleading. “We are to be married, whether you and I wish it or not at this point. I do not wish to spend our lives locked in eternal combat over this or any matter.”

“Then what do you propose?”

“If we could...acknowledge what has happened yet not linger on it then perhaps we could build a sort of alliance.”

“An alliance,” I test out the word and lean towards him, the wood of the desk pressing into my chest. “How would this alliance proceed, Mr. Mellark?”

“You’ve need of funds, I assume to keep Everdeen flourishing and to care for your father. You’ve also need of security in the event of his passing. Your mother, your sister, the countess and her charming daughter -- all people who rely on you for a home that I assume will be snatched from beneath your feet upon his death. I can provide both of those.”

My cheeks flame and I nod. “Have you an estate that we might call home?”

“I do not,” he says and gives me a strange sort of smile. “The Marquis had no qualms providing me with funds and a commission, but lands are the inheritance of a gentleman. Not his bastard son.”

I manage not to cringe at his speech nor think of the uncharitable thoughts I have prescribed to him given his birth. Pity for him will not do. I need to establish the path forward first.

“The money should be enough to buy us some time,” he offers.

Us. The word hangs in the air between us, an invitation to an accord.

“Miss Everdeen, I have spent my days in a household of an unhappy marriage where the husband and wife are at constant odds. It is...toxic to growth and difficult for everyone around them. Never knowing what is acceptable to one party or the other when sometimes the husband makes decisions merely for the sake of angering the wife and vice versa. I do not wish to continue in such a home after our marriage, and I imagine that you do not either.”

I hesitate in answering, although I already know he speaks the truth. Did I not just think this morning on how happy and carefree my sister and Madge appeared, how I longed to maintain that for them? I cannot do that if I am constantly at war with my own husband, regardless of how our engagement came to be. I nod once and he smiles.

“I knew you were not so cruel,” he says, soft and warm as my cheeks heat inexplicably. “You care far too much for their well being for that.”

At this he nods towards the windows which overlook the garden. A timely laugh reaches my ears to solidify our understanding of one another.

“I will not bow to your dictates on how to run Everdeen,” I say, searching for firm footing in this strange new land.

“I would not ask you to. I have no expertise on the running of an estate. That was not a future I was educated for, although I would like to change that to a degree. I wish to help, to be an asset and an active participant in this alliance, not a burden. And I cannot stand the thought of being idle.”

I tilt my head and wonder at the concessions he makes so easily. “How long did you wish to wait to say the vows?”

“However long you wish to wait. I would take months to court you properly, if you would grant them to me.” The heat spreads from my cheeks down my neck. “I sense however, that while you might have doubts about an immediate union, your father’s health dictates some haste.”

“Perhaps a week then,” I offer and he nods once. I stand and he rises to bow. Despite the lies still between us, it is the first real flicker of hope that I feel sparking to life in my breast. “In the meantime, perhaps you should acquaint yourself with your future home.”

“Nothing would give me more pleasure.” A small shiver runs down my spine and I scowl slightly. It would not do for me to fall ill at such a time as this. I shall need to speak to Mrs. Chilton about the temperatures in the house.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

I have heard rumors of life in the city providing many diversions. A life full of social engagements, parties and teas. If it is anything like the month I spent in Capitol, then I can do well enough without it. I much prefer the sort of busy life of the country. There is always work to be done. Crops to tend and harvest, fields to prepare, livestock to see to, cheeses to be made from milk, herbs to be dried, and so much more. Everdeen produces a wide range of herbal remedies for everything from a cough to dry, papery skin. It is a year round occupation of growing, reaping and sowing, processing, packaging and selling. There isn’t a day that passes without some sort of task needing to be done.

And sometimes, when the work is done early, there is time for enjoyment and socialising. A wedding is nothing if not fodder for the gossips, a reason for local gentry to roll up their carpets, sweep their floors, tune their pianos, slaughter meats to be roasted, and invite a host of guests. Peeta’s arrival at Everdeen provides the excuse and an invitation arrives over tea from Mrs. Thompson, whose family of two daughters and two sons lives but a half an hour ride from Everdeen.

“Oh but you must attend our dinner tonight!” She insists and my mother heartily agrees, pausing only to ask my assurance that Peeta is not too tired from his journey to attend.

“He has had a day of rest,” I say, although I would rather decline. I can tell that my mother will not refuse, and it has been so long since she has left the house that I cannot pass on this opportunity. Peeta will simply have to bear it whether he wishes to or not.

“Splendid! I am happy to hear, as our cook already began roasting the lamb before I left.”

The remainder of the day is lost in preparations for the dinner we are to attend. Madge fusses over my appearance as I try to wave her off.

“This is not the Capitol. No one will care how I look.”

“It is your first public appearance with Peeta as your betrothed,” she insists. “You will be married in a week, which will seem quite hasty to some. The gossips will be relentless.”

I wish to ask why I should care what the gossips think, but Primrose wanders in then and squeals over my dress, spinning romantic fantasies that have us all shaking our heads and laughing. Hope blossoms from her eyes and her words, and I cannot bring myself to destroy the seedlings.

Peeta was correct on one thing. I cannot bear to force my family to live in a house full of strife. I will find a way to make this marriage to him work, if only for the sake of their happiness.

It is a strange sort of mood as we ride in the carriage to the Thompson estate. Peeta exits first and assists each of us out. I am last to exit the carriage and his grip on my hand tightens for a moment, halting my steps.

“They will ask questions. How much are we to reveal?” 

“I...Not the truth,” I say, sounding scandalised and breathless even to my ears. He smiles slightly and his thumb caresses over my knuckles. 

“Perhaps a version of the truth then, omitting your brief engagement to Robert?”

“Yes,” I manage to agree.

Dinner proceeds as expected. Everyone wishes to hear the story of how Peeta and I met. Astonishingly, I remain silent for most of it. Peeta captures their attention from the start, spinning a tale of a young woman bravely filling her father’s shoes and unfortunately running into a mishap with her horse and some mud. He omits the examination of my ankle, much to my relief, and simplifies the story enough to explain without revealing intimate details. Our reunion in Capitol he depicts as happy circumstance, not the result of my pursuing his brother, and tidily wraps it up after that by changing the subject to divert attention away from us.

I am congratulated and praised for such a fine match. He steals their hearts in a matter of minutes and I cannot help but be a little annoyed yet simultaneously in awe. 

No one mentions that while Peeta’s father is a Marquis, his mother is an unknown, and I wonder how many of them know the truth regarding that.

After dinner, the music begins. Prim is swept into dances, and a young man braves asking Madge to partner for a set. My mother engages with several friends she has barely seen the past months since my father’s accident. As much as I wish for my father’s recovery, this small scene reassures me somehow. The joy is contagious and I soon find myself smiling and bouncing in time to the tune. Beside me, Peeta stands stoic and I cannot resist the temptation to tease him.

“Mr. Mellark!” He bends down to hear me over the ruckus. “I am still owed a dance!” His reaction is slow as he stands slightly and seems to be struggling with something. “Or do you find me a repulsive partner?”

“Never, madame,” he says.

“Then you have something against dancing with your fiancé? The gossips will have quite a bit of fun with that tidbit,” I say. Irritation at his hesitance threatens to shift to real anger. 

He glances over the dancers before giving me a look full of sadness and apology. “Please believe that this has nothing to do with you, Miss Everdeen.”

“I do not understand, Mr. Mellark.”

He takes my hand in his and before I can protest, leads me away from the dancing, out into the darkened hall, turning to speak to me. “You are not the only one left marked and disfigured by life, Miss Everdeen.”

I nearly run from the hall at the reminder of what I told him -- or Robert -- that night. And of what followed. The memory of lips on my skin and the scent of night blossoms heavy and seductive around me threatens to plunge me into a depth I am not sure I can escape, but the questions in his eyes hold me captive and grounded long enough to ask him one thing.

“You wear yours on your face. How does that prevent you from dancing?”

“Those are not the only ones. I have a false leg, Miss Everdeen.”

“Pardon?”

“Kick my left shin.”

“What?”

“See for yourself, unless you’d rather I remove my trousers?” he says, a teasing smile lifting one corner of his lips. A furious blush takes over and I lift my foot into his left shin, only to encounter something far too solid to be a flesh and bone leg. My eyes leap to his as a strange echo fills my ears. “Now you know. I would embarrass you far more by dancing with you than I ever could by not dancing with you.”

Before I can form a proper response, he takes my hand in his, kisses it, and then vanishes. I’m left with my head spinning and a thousand questions burning in my mind. How did he lose his leg? How on earth has he managed to appear as though he is still intact? It explains so much -- the limp, the slow methodical motions, even why he did not dismount that day in the rain or at the stairs to Everdeen yesterday morning. How then would he get back on his horse?

I lean back on the wall and laugh, only just keeping the sound from veering into the realm of hysterical as I realise… There is far more to the man I am about to marry than I could have imagined.


	10. Chapter 10

True to his word, Peeta immediately sets to work learning all about my home and settling in as though he is eager to accept it as his home as well. It begins simply enough. The morning after the dinner at the Thompson estate, he joins me at breakfast. Upon seeing me already in the room, he clears his throat and seems uncomfortable. I could of course add to his discomfort, but that is not a good start to a decent alliance.

In a moment, I relive all of the fears and anxieties caused by my own scarring and how much courage it required to reveal them to the man in the mask, how he responded with such candor and acceptance. I wonder now if Peeta faces that fear each time he admits the truth of his leg to someone. His disfigurement would affect nearly every aspect of how he lives his life.

I cannot torment the man and claim to be holding to our agreement.

“We have hot chocolate. And the eggs are quite good this morning,” I say as I motion towards the dish. His eyes dart between the eggs on the sideboard, those on my plate, and then my eyes.

“Thank you,” he says and I manage a small smile as I take my seat while he fills his own plate. This alliance is not so difficult, I think as he takes a seat across from me.

“Miss Everdeen, I do not wish to appear that I am eager to make changes to your home…” his words trail off as I scowl at him, his cheeks pinkening for a moment before he continues. “In regards to the matter we discussed last night, there are a few small...additions that would make things easier for me.”

“I see,” I say, hesitant but willing to try. “After breakfast perhaps you could show me what you have in mind. We could also ride over the estates and I can show you around.”

He gives me a nod of agreement and the tension that had been building in the room seems to vanish. After that, it is a strangely domestic scene, quiet and oddly comfortable. Even when Madge joins us with Maysilee, there is no real strife. Perhaps a strain in Madge’s voice as she speaks to me, uncertain how we are to converse as we are accustomed to doing with a strange man in the room. It annoys me a little, but I suppose we shall all need time to adjust.

Or perhaps the strain is owing to the strange faces I catch Peeta making, directed at Maysilee, who hides her giggles behind her food.

At one point, Maysilee abandons her toast and toddles over to Peeta. She lifts her hands and demands, “Up! Up, Misser Pee’ah!”

I nearly gape as he sets aside his fork, turning to the child with a smile on his face and scooping her up onto his lap. Purple jam from Maysilee’s sticky hands smears across the white fabric of his cravat. Madge’s eyes widen and slide over to me in a panic.

“Good morning, Miss Maysee. What grand adventure have you planned for today?” he asks as he reaches across the table to slide Maysilee’s plate in front of her. She snatches up her toast and stuffs a large bite in her mouth, much to Madge’s dismay and Peeta’s apparent amusement. He smiles and listens to the child ramble about something, ignoring her complete lack of manners. I catch a few words such as “horse” and “meadow” and perhaps something about a rainbow. Peeta nods sagely at each garbled sentence, encouraging her to continue. She beams up at him when she is done, and an odd feeling curls inside me at the sight, almost like a fond memory.

“Well Miss Maysee, as much as I would love to hunt a rainbow with you, we need rain before the sky can make a rainbow, and it looks to be quite sunny today.” Maysilee’s lip quivers and Peeta hurries to continue. “A butterfly though, perhaps we might find several of those.”

“One in ev’ry colour?” Maysee asks and Peeta nods. 

“We can try...if your mother is alright with our quest,” Peeta says, lifting his eyes to Madge.

“I...yes, of course,” Madge agrees and Maysilee claps her hands, scrambling from Peeta’s lap and shouting for Mary to help her prepare for an adventure with “Misser Pee’ah.” In the quiet that settles over us, Peeta clears his throat.

“I apologize if I have overstepped some boundaries, Countess.”

“No!” Madge examines him oddly then. “It’s only… She took right to you. When did you and she meet?”

“Yesterday,” he explains. “She wandered in while I was unpacking, with a flustered maid right on her tail. Sae, I believe it was? She insisted I needed to see the garden inside the glass room. We went on a sort of treasure hunt. It’s a very lovely conservatory, Miss Everdeen.”

“A hunt for flowers?”

“No I believe she meant actual gold, but yellow flowers sufficed.” My eyes dip to the yellow blooms on the center of the table and my face warms at thoughts of I do not even know what. How easily he seems to be inserting himself into life here.

“And you did not mention it before now?” I ask. 

“I did not think it important. Was I mistaken?”

“No,” Madge says with a smile. “But do you really wish to spend the day on another such hunt with a child?”

“I meant to show you Everdeen today,” I remind him and he smiles at me, the expression almost playful.

“Why not accomplish both, Miss Everdeen?” It’s ridiculous and silly and sounds strangely wonderful. “Unless the Countess has objections to allowing her daughter to accompany us?”

“None. I think I shall help Prim with several of the sachets for the harvest. Do you have any objections, Katniss?” She turns to me with a sly smile and I wonder at it until after I have agreed and Peeta has departed the breakfast room as my mother enters. They exchange greetings and my mother stares after him for a moment before turning to us.

“Did he...does he know his cravat is stained purple?”

“I am not sure,” I tell my mother and lift my shoulders to show my indifference. “Perhaps he shall set a trend.”

“Designed by children and dyed with jam cravats,” Madge says. “They will be all the rage among new fathers and favourite uncles.” And I cannot stop the laugh that bursts free.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

We begin in the stables, with Maysilee standing on a stool while Joe shows her the proper way to saddle Cicero and Peeta explaining a modification to me -- a leather strap hung from a reinforced beam to aid in mounting a horse, much like a mounting stone. I do not see how it would even work until he grabs a length of rope, and finding a point in the rafters that could support a great deal of weight, loops the rope over it, twisting the rope around his hand.

Joe then hands Maysilee to me and leads Cicero from his stall to stand in front of Peeta. At a touch to Cicero’s side, the great horse bends his forelegs in the same motion as yesterday, when they bowed to my mother. I watch as Peeta jams one foot in the stirrup, and using the rope as leverage in one hand, the reins and mane in the other, mounts his horse. Cicero rises and Peeta releases the rope, tugging it down and tossing it to Joe.

Maysilee claps her hands and once more, makes a demand. “Up, Misser Pee’ah! Up horse!”

I blink to clear my head of strange thoughts and hand Maysilee up to him as Charles brings Sagittaria.

“Charles, did you hear Mr. Mellark’s explanation?” I ask, watching Peeta make sure Maysilee is safely settled in front of him. Charles nods to me.

“I did. We can have it done by this afternoon, Miss Everdeen.” He glances at the pair on the huge grey as Cicero dances out into the yard. “Won’t take much work between me and Joe, and I think I’ve the supplies we’ll need. Pretty ingenious, if you ask me.”

“Indeed,” I say and take his assistance in mounting Sagittaria then follow Peeta and Maysilee into the sunshine.

“Lead the way, Miss Everdeen. We are at your disposal,” Peeta says, turning his horse to face me, a smile on his face and his hand holding the child steady in front of him. Gleeful peals of laughter bubble from Maysilee’s lips.

“There are usually butterflies near the south field,” I tell them, catching the joy of the hunt as we ride off towards the fields.

It turns out to be a glorious day. Warm sunshine and a balmy breeze make the heat bearable as we ride over hills. Maysilee points out anything that excites her, holding much of Peeta’s attention, but not all of it.

He asks questions of me at every possible turn and shows a true interest in the workings of the estate. Eventually, our ride brings us to the lane of cottages where most of the laborers reside. We pause to exchange words with a few, all of them curious about Peeta, their eyes fixed to us as we leave, whispers swirling in our wake.

“They are anxious,” Peeta says and I nod.

“My father, he always tried to ensure no one on our lands wanted. I have tried to do the same, but I cannot guarantee what will happen after he...” I cannot even finish the statement as Peeta’s hand lands on mine and he squeezes, the gesture somehow reassuring.

“We will do whatever we can. May I ask who is to inherit?”

“A cousin. Mr. Gale Hawthorne.”

“I am not familiar with the name,” Peeta says as our horses plod on. Maysilee spots a yellow butterfly then and we pause long enough for her to watch it before it flies away. “What do you know of him?”

The words come easily, surprisingly. Perhaps because Peeta has listened so attentively all day, I feel a comfort in sharing this with him. There is, of course, the reasoning that the future of Everdeen now affects his future as well, given that he will soon be my husband.

Yet it does not explain why I ramble on and venture into telling him of Rory Hawthorne’s visit and of my suspicions that he was courting Prim. I stop when I realize what I have said and purse my lips. Peeta’s lopsided smile makes an appearance then.

“You are quite fetching when you blush, Miss Everdeen. Does it happen often?”

“Rarely,” I snap at him and his smile only brightens.

“You are concerned for your sister’s heart, should Mr. Hawthorne’s intentions turn out to be truly business related.”

“Am I so obvious?”

“In your care for your family, yes. In other matters you are still quite puzzling.”

“Would you not be concerned?” I ask and he shakes his head, although the smile does not budge.

“Dare I remind you of how we found ourselves in our current predicament? Clearly, I understand your concerns.”

I open my mouth to tell him he’s no idea what I am experiencing when Maysilee points and squeals.

“Orange!”

“Yes, now we have found an orange butterfly,” Peeta agrees and brings Cicero to a halt once more so that Maysilee might watch. “Orange is my favourite colour, Miss Maysee. What is yours?”

“Purple!” she shouts, joyful and completely unaware of the turmoil such a simple conversation causes me as she turns to peek at me from beneath Peeta’s arms. “What’s yours, Miss Ka’niss?”

“Green,” I tell her, the answer automatic. “I doubt we shall find a green butterfly though.”

“Perhaps a green moth,” Peeta suggests.

“Or leaf!” Maysilee adds with a toothy smile, pointing to the leaves overhead fluttering in the breeze much like the wings of a butterfly.

“Good alternative. Now we should focus on finding a purple butterfly,” Peeta says and Maysilee launches into a dissertation on all the wonderful things that come in the colour purple.

Orange, I think. How likely is it that Sir Robert and Peeta share a favourite colour? I shake myself free of my thoughts and take the lead on the path once more.

“We still have a good deal of ground to cover before we reach the meadow,” I say, unable to meet Peeta’s eyes for a moment while I collect my thoughts.

“And then picnic!” Maysilee’s joy follows me as I ride.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

One week of promised reprieve becomes two as we quickly realise that any guests we wish to attend our wedding beyond the immediate populace of Everdeen and Southeastern Panem will need more time to be notified, prepare, and to travel here. This includes Haymitch and Effie, as well as Peeta’s brother, Henry.

Little changes over the following days. Peeta continues to ask questions of me and solicits my opinion and approval. More than that, he immerses himself in any task I ask of him. By the end of the first week, I barely recognise him as a guest, so seamlessly has he integrated into life here. The servants have taken to him with such ease, it befuddles me. Peeta’s willingness to work by my side has the added effect of freeing up more of my time, the burden suddenly easier to bear with an extra set of hands and an extra body essentially doubling the amount of work I can accomplish. I spend some of my newly discovered time sitting vigil by my father’s side, tearing my nails to shreds between my teeth.

It is too smooth, this transition. There must be something to upset this tentative tranquility we enjoy. I can only hope it is not Death who will upset the balance.

The summer days melt away under the heat and several gentle showers that alleviate my concerns for our harvest. Then one day, a raging storm arrives and lasts for nearly an entire day, frightening poor Maysilee to the point that she hides within the folds of Madge’s skirts and refuses to emerge. When it passes, Peeta is the one to coax her out with the promise of hunting down their rainbow. As I head towards the door to join them in the stables, I find Madge watching through the windows and pause to assure myself of her well being.

“I know this is not the future you had envisioned for yourself, Katniss,” she says and turns luminous eyes towards me. “But I cannot be upset with it. Not with the way Maysilee has taken to him so.”

I glance out the window, confused at the uncomfortable mix of emotions swirling like a storm inside me, ready to be unleashed. I haven’t the time to separate them.

“So he is able to enchant a child. That still tells me nothing of what sort of husband he shall be,” I say and leave before she can contradict me. 

I leave because the lie is a foul stain on my tongue. Would my pride allow it, I would spit the thing on the ground and stomp it to death. I allowed an alliance to prevent my home from turning poisonous, but this thing growing daily in my chest is unexpected and unwelcome, like a weed threatening to consume with no chance of uprooting it.

We find our rainbow and as Maysilee reaches towards it with a childlike rapture, Peeta’s eyes find me watching him. His lips tilt up in a smile and my heart cracks like thunder in my chest. I ignore the feelings and stare towards the rainbow instead.

Two weeks ago, I despised him. This softness I feel towards him shall pass like the storm. Anyone can pretend to be someone else entirely for two weeks. Time will reveal the truth of who he is and what our marriage is to be like. Therefore, I must content myself with the alliance we agreed to, and nothing more.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

In the days before our wedding, guests arrive and fill every empty corner of the house. Maysilee is moved to Prim’s room to accommodate the overflow. I manage to keep my composure when Haymitch and Effie arrive, both of them engulfing me in a tight embrace, and Haymitch at least greeting Peeta with a shake of hands and a rare smile. Until I tell him that still, my father languishes in a coma.

I continue, composed and gracious as I can possibly manage when a reedy looking man with curly blonde hair arrives, taking a small child in his arms and then assisting a regal looking woman with sleek dark hair, a pointed nose, and spectacles from the carriage.

“My brother Henry, his wife Angelica, and their daughter--”

“Emma,” I supply, happy for the distraction of a child. She is perhaps four years old and as soon as I am able to escape the pleasantries without appearing rude, I abscond with her to introduce her to Maysilee, leaving Peeta the task of seeing his family settled. He knows his way about the estates by now.

It is clear within minutes that the two girls shall get along quite well when Emma sits and picks up on the game Maysilee is playing with her dolls. Sae smiles fondly at the two girls and then ushers me right back out of the room.

“They will be fast friends, my dear. Go greet your guests.” I huff in frustration and instead find myself in my father’s room. Mary stands as soon as I enter. A curtsy and then she’s gone, leaving me alone with him. I sink into the chair at his bedside and collapse with my head in my arms.

“Oh Papa. What am I going to do about tomorrow?”

There is no answer. No gentle touch on my hair to soothe the ache in my heart that I cannot explain. No wise words to light the best path before me. It is then that I allow myself tears for my father, for what I hold so dear and have missed so desperately, and I begin to understand why my mother spent long weeks in this very chair, unwilling or unable to move. The past two weeks have gone so well, better than even I planned when I set out with a list of qualifications for a husband, and yet my anxieties remain.

I drift through dreams, muddled and confused by lips that kiss then disappear in a violet mist. A gentle touch between my fingers, a behest to hold tight, yet the instant I close my grip to hold the phantom fingers secure, those too vanish. A deep laughter calls me down a path, obscured in the mist, swirled away by a spring green skirt and a child’s footprints. A snake like demon laughs and the comfort of the dream shatters as I wake, sitting upright quick enough to cause a headache.

“My apologies for waking you so abruptly.”

“Oh,” I moan and a hand rubs comfortingly over my back. “I had the strangest dream.”

“You sounded distressed. Do you wish to talk about it?” I finally lift my gaze as the voice speaking registers, and I find Peeta’s concerned blue eyes watching me.

“No,” I say and stand, stepping away from his touch. “No I think perhaps I shall rest in my own room now.”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

I find no real rest and struggle through dinner. I manage and then make my excuses to retire early, pleading a headache. Peeta asks if there is anything he might do and I shake my head. Still, he lifts my hand in his and bows over it, wishing me well for the morning.

I am still awake as Madge joins me for sleep.

“Katniss?” she asks and I sniffle pathetically.

“I am awake.”

“Tomorrow then…”

“Yes,” I whisper and stare unseeing at the wall, wishing for the ability to see into my future.

“Do you...do you regret it?” Madge whispers in the night. I kick away the sheets, angered and overly hot.

“What have I to regret?”

“Sir Robert.” I lay still and wait for her to continue. We’ve barely spoken of it, despite my promise to do so. “You were...falling in love with him, were you not?”

“I do not know.”

“At the masquerade,” she prompts and I sigh, punching my pillow and then revealing Peeta’s words.

“Peeta claims Sir Robert never made it to the masquerade.”

“Then who…who did you kiss?”

“Peeta claims that he was the man in the mask.” Madge gasps at the words but then seems to change her thoughts.

“That might make some sort of sense, though. Do you believe him?”

“No,” I say and relish in the silence for a moment, in digging up the righteous anger and indignation at the manner in which he treated me. But it does not last, flickering away and dying to less than an ember as I think back on the past few weeks, even further back than that, and attempt to line up the behaviour of the two brothers and what I believed to know about them, attempting to find similarities in each with the man in the mask.

“Why not?” Madge asks after some time. 

I feign sleep, unable to answer that question even for myself. I cannot remember why I did not believe him, what made me so certain that the man in the mask had to be Robert and no one else.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

I am married to Peeta Mellark on a sunny Saturday, nearer to the end of summer than to the start of it. The early morning light slants in through the church windows, casting a warm, ethereal glow over those in attendance. If I did not know better, I would think it a romantic scene as Peeta offers his arm to me and I accept it. Together, we walk slowly down the aisle towards the front, our steps matched in a steady pace.

For near the entirety of the ceremony, I feel as though I exist half removed from my body, as though I am watching the events and not a key participant of them. I promise to love, honour, and cherish a man I scarcely know, even as I cling to his hands wrapped about mine and raised between us. It is when he repeats his own vows that I am brought back to reality. His voice is clear and steady, despite the trepidation I see in his own eyes.

It is then, as he returns the promises to me, oddly enough, that I manage to find some form of acceptance. He does not look away from me as he speaks his vows, as though he is in fact, giving the promises in them to me, and only me. Not to God or my family or anyone else in this universe. 

The only moment he looks away is as he slides a ring on my finger, a simple golden band that matches the one he then hands to me to fit upon his hand. I can feel his gaze on me as I slide his ring on his finger. I am momentarily distracted by the fine blonde hairs dusted over the back of his hand, the pair of small, faded scars that grace his skin there.

I still do not know what our future holds, and yet when I find the courage to look at him once more, I realise that as long as he continues as he has been these past two weeks, then I do know him in a way.

He has been kind and steady, considerate and thoughtful to those around him, willing to compromise and work to find a solution that suits all it affects as much as possible. He does not shirk from a problem, but much like the man who plucked me from the mud, deals with it in an efficient manner. Even in his sarcastic banter with me, he shows a form of respect, matching me word for word and never once asking me to cease being who I am or pushing our teasing beyond what I can handle. In his treatment of my family, he has been nothing but gentle and accommodating. He has slid into the role of partner, lord of our lands, member of my family, as though they were roles made expressly for him to fill.

As the preacher finishes the vows, Peeta bends his head to mine, pausing before our lips connect. His eyes search mine for a moment, perhaps for approval. I give him a slight nod and he gives me a sweet kiss as the audience announces their approval. My heart flutters, soft as moths wings, and then he lifts his head, eyes opening slowly to look at me once more, and I see nothing but deep, concerned blue, so deep I wonder if one might swim in such eyes. How fanciful. I banish the strange wistful feeling with another nod. 

We are in agreement then. This alliance still stands strong.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The celebrations continue the entire afternoon and into the evening. Dancing and food, boisterous laughter and conversation. I cannot help but smile at the shared joy to be found in a good meal, a shared revelry as everyone from my dear friend the countess to a man who earns his keep digging drainage ditches enjoy themselves.

One bittersweet moment arises as I watch Henry Mellark dance with his wife, Angelica. There is an affection in their eyes that I envy, to have such certainty in one’s life partner must be grand. Their daughter remains locked in an intellectual discussion about cakes with Peeta while Maysilee insists the best way to decide which is the more delicious is to eat the cake. I dance one set with Prim then hand her to Madge, who laughs brighter than ever as she dances. If only my father were awake to see this, I think and bite back tears.

Only, were he awake, I am not sure this scene would be a reality.

I lace my fingers with Peeta’s then, an almost unconscious move as the dancing continues. He squeezes my hand and I reflect on how odd it is that the man who has caused so much upheaval in my life is the one to comfort me now.

Only, he is not the root cause of the upheaval, I grant as the daylight fades and my eyes are drawn to the wide windows of the master’s chambers, where my father still sleeps, unaware that his eldest child is now a married woman. 

We move through the crowds together, accepting well wishes and laughing with our guests. Every so often, Peeta will twirl me in a circle beneath his arm, a brief taste of the dances. But I do not let go of his hand for the remainder of the party. Not until my mother claims my attention, pulling me aside with whispers and a gentle touch, a knowing smile for my groom. 

Oh God, it is now time. 

I move in a numb fog, following instructions as I am undressed and bathed by hands not my own, dressed again in a soft gown and assisted into my own bed, redressed for a wedding night with fragrant blossoms draped on the canopy.

“Katniss,” my mother says, leaning over the bed to cradle my cheek in her palm. “Breathe. Do try to relax and enjoy this night. He is a good man, and he cares for you.”

All I can manage is a nod and then I am left alone. I close my eyes and try to control my breathing, listening to every stray laugh or footstep or creak of floorboards in the house as I wait.

Much as I will it, my heart does not slow but continues it’s frantic pace. I search for the boldness I knew once upon a starry night. I catch the scents of the blooms and they spring loose a memory and a need. My body responds with heat and my eyes fly open.

No. I cannot be thinking of that night now. I cannot be thinking of the man in the mask while I am attempting to fulfill my marital duty to Peeta. It seems like the worst sort of betrayal and I scramble from the sheets to search the blossoms for the chief offender. Layers of scent make the search difficult and I am about to tear down the entire thing when the door opens and Peeta is shoved forth to raucous shouts.

“And a good evening to you!” He shouts back and shuts the door in their faces. When he turns to face me, leaning back on the door and crossing his arms over his chest, I am frozen with my arms lifted comically towards the bower above me. “The flowers offend you, madame?”

“They insulted me most grievously. I should cut out their tongues,” I say. He laughs and I lower my hands as more shouts echo in the hall. 

“Barbarians,” he mutters and smacks his fist on the door twice before pushing himself off the plank and limping towards the fire. I wince at the ache in my arms from holding them aloft for so long as I sit on the mattress and await my husband.

My husband. It is strange to think of him as such after the path we have already traversed.

Instead of coming to the bed, however, he continues towards the fire, sliding his coat from his shoulders and draping it over the back of one of the chairs set there. He then loosens his cravat and I scowl at his motions, at the manner in which he acts as though I am not even here.

“Would you care for a drink, then?” I ask and scramble from the bed, frantic with the need to do something. I cannot stand the waiting.

“An excellent idea,” he says and then releases a sound of relief. When I glance back at him, he is seated in the chair, face twisted in discomfort. I pour the drinks and then move cautiously towards him as he removes his boots. “Thank you.”

“You are welcome,” I say as he takes a sip and then lets his head fall back onto the chair, eyes closed. I slowly sit in the chair next to him, confused at his complete lack of action. All the whispers and stories, the unsolicited advice I have received in the past few weeks about this night, all of it indicated that a wedding night involves a manic sort of haste on the part of the groom. Even the serving women who profess to now enjoy the bedroom exploits with their husband admitted that the wedding night was not much to speak of.

“Oh it won’t be that exciting for you. A few hard thrusts is all they can really last that first time, too excited for it, like a mongrel dog with a bone. But it does become more enjoyable with time,” Sae informed me and many of the others nodded in affirmation of her words. Even my mother did not refute it when she walked in on the conversation, although she did hush the women and insist they not terrify me before my wedding night. I did not dare to tell her that Madge’s account of the thing was terrifying. These women gave me some relief after her tale.

“Are we then to drink and nothing more tonight?” I ask Peeta.

“Is there something else you would rather do?” He opens one eye to peer at me, laughter and the flames dancing in its light as my cheeks heat.

“I am prepared to perform my duty, Mr. Mellark. I will not be a shirking wife.”

“Your duty, oh!” He groans and shakes his head, placing one hand over his heart as though wounded. “Such passionate words! Forgive me, madame, if I cannot summon adequate ardor to perform a  _ duty _ for someone who finds it so distasteful.”

“I am not ugly, sir. Granted I am scarred but so are you and--”

“Katniss, stop. This has nothing to do with how attractive I find you. Believe me, I am going to regret this decision mightily by the morning, but I will stand firm in this.”

“You make little sense, sir.” I stare at him as he sits there in the chair, unmoving, holding me in place with his gaze. The fire crackles in the hearth and I grasp a blanket to wrap around my shoulders, taken with a sudden chill.

“I can see that,” he says and tossing back the remainder of his drink, he sets the glass aside and leans forward in the chair, eyes glittering and his mouth set in a grim line. “So I shall be plain in my speaking. I have no interest in forcing myself on anyone who is unwilling.”

“I am not unwilling!”

“Not in your mind, but you have made it quite clear that in your heart, I am not what you want.” 

“How would you be forcing me when I am inviting you? I am prepared to act as a wife.”

“And I am prepared to not act as a brute. Forcing myself on you in the name of marital duty is no different from rape in my mind. You invite only because you think it expected of you. That is not an invitation I shall hasten to accept, Madame. It is no real invitation at all.”

I gape at him for a moment, his eyes challenging me to deny what he says.

“So then you will not touch me?”

“Not tonight,” he says and leans back in the chair. “And not tomorrow either, nor any night hence unless we are both certain that it is an act of desire, not of duty. In fact, I think I shall sleep right here.”

“Fine then,” I snarl and march to the bed, yanking back the covers and leaving him to sit and sleep in discomfort. If that is what he wants, then that is precisely what he shall have. I punch my pillow, tears pricking my eyes as I huff.

“It will be difficult to sleep with you making a racket,” he calls out and I silence myself. Then with one final snarl, I lay still, fuming at the thought that I could have trusted him at all, that I allowed myself any sort of fledgling belief that this marriage might work.

I toss and turn in the bed, unable to find sleep. He shifts in the chair, clearly unable to do so either. And then I sit up, astonished at myself. Why am I angry with him? For days now, I have fretted and been furious at the idea that he might expect me to submit to him tonight. Instead, he expresses the exact opposite desire.

I gather my knees to my chest and hug them, watching him across the room and once more wondering at the man I have married. He shifts in the chair and a pang stabs at my chest. He truly means for our marriage to remain chaste then.

That chair must be dreadfully uncomfortable, and he has spent the entire day on his feet. Perhaps not a great sacrifice for some, but Peeta walks on a false leg. It must be paining him now. Of course it is. That was the reason his face was twisted so.

I have resolved to invite him to sleep in the bed with me — sleep only — when a snore reaches me.

The bastard is already asleep. I stuff my face in my pillow to stifle my shout of frustration. Let him sleep in the chair then.


	11. Chapter 11

I sleep wretchedly. In fact, I am certain that I slept better in the days leading up to our wedding than I do on the wedding night, despite being left utterly alone and untouched. There are a few moments of tension in the morning, with Peeta and I moving around one another in an attempt to prepare for the day.

“I swear this room was enormous only two days ago,” I mutter as we nearly collide for the fourth time. Peeta laughs then and reaches behind him to grasp my morning dress from where it lays. I hold my dressing gown closed tight, hoping he will not be able to see how my chest heaves with my rapid breathing as he hands the garment to me.

“I suppose this will require some further adjustment on both our parts. I will try not to be so much underfoot, madame,” he says, offering the dress to me. 

“It is your room as well,” I mutter through clenched teeth, accepting my dress and turning away from him, giving him some semblance of privacy to dress as I wash my face.

In the mirror, I catch a brief glimpse of him and avert my gaze. Heat creeps up my neck like grasping vines of ivy climbing walls. The sensation will not cease and urges my eyes up and up against my will until I become a spy, stealing a glimpse of my husband with his back to me, no shirt and barely any pants on his body.

The day we met, I considered that what appeared to be broad shoulders beneath his coat might be a trick of the tailor, but no. There is no trick at all. Peeta is solidly built. As he moves, I feel as though some sort of string has been tied between his arms with their evident strength, and my gut. Surely that is the reason for my reaction to him, for the hollow feeling when his shirt is in at last dropped into place and he is once more concealed from my gaze. He asks me a mundane question about the arrangements for church today.

I answer him and finish scrubbing. By the time Mary arrives to help me dress, Peeta is fully garbed and leaves me in the clutches of my maid. I am in a daze until I reach breakfast and eagerly grasp at the food as a distraction from the feelings churning inside me. It does little good with the source of my distraction seated across the table, engaged in easy conversation with his brother and sister-in-law, Maysilee perched in her now usual spot on his knee and Emma beside her, explaining how she combines flavors of jams to create new ones and what does Maysilee think of strawberry-apricot?

“Katniss are you feeling well?” Madge whispers to me and I startle, nearly spilling my tea.

“What? Fine!” I hiss under my breath so that no one might hear. “I am fine.” She glances between Peeta and I, and I can see the concern in her eyes. It is then that I notice the faint rings beneath Peeta’s eyes that speak of poor sleep. At least he suffers as I do. Serves him right. “I will tell you later.”

Church presents its own form of torture, being forced to sit still and exude pious serenity with so much turmoil in my brain, especially given how centered on the bedroom and copulation my thoughts are this morning. Father Crane prattles on about devotion, the need to fulfill one’s promises, even in the face of extreme adversity. I fume silently, twitching with the heat in the stifling building and hoping the sermon is burning my husband’s ears. Devotion indeed. 

Father Crane continues, berating those who might attempt to influence the Hand of God, to alter their fate or question the Almighty’s plan, to escape their duties. I am certain that I have heard this exact sermon before and tune him out. His nasal voice disturbs my thought processes and I must be focused if I am to sort out the mess that is my marriage.

Peeta sits across the church from me, apparently serene and focused on the words, head bowed slightly. The sun even dares to shine on his hair in such a way that he seems almost divine. Beside him, Haymitch snores, although no one bothers to wake him. To do so would cause more disturbance to the sermon than the snores themselves, although Father Crane does send him several withering glares throughout. On Peeta’s other side, his brother Henry stares out the windows, as though longing for an escape.

He is playing some game by not touching me, my husband. I am certain of it. Perhaps he means to force a divorce or an annulment by claiming that I have neglected my duty as a wife. Yes! That is it. If we do not consummate our marriage, he can use the lack of children to discard me. Or perhaps he means to weaken me somehow in refusing to act as a husband, lulling me into a sense of security before claiming what he truly wants. Whatever game it is he plays, I cannot allow this. I have worked too hard to secure a husband and a fortune to support my family to allow it all to fall apart now. I will simply have to seduce him tonight.

With a plan and resolution, I am better able to sit still through the sermon. It is once we are at home after that things begin to fall apart.

“Katniss,” Madge grabs my arm and keeps me back from the remainder of our party. “Are you alright?”

“Quite fine, now that I have a plan.”

“A plan?” Madge asks, her hand flying to her throat. “Oh no. Was it that awful last night?”

“Awful? Yes, it was wretched.” I bite out the words, unable to hide how embarrassed I feel. Why I am embarrassed is beyond me. I am not the one in the wrong here. It is Peeta who is shirking his duty in our bedroom, not I.

The more that I think about it, the more I am convinced that he either is repulsed by my scars and is therefore the worst sort of hypocrite, or he is using this to somehow manipulate me. I will not allow that. I will instead outmaneuver him.

Before Madge can question me further, I tear myself away from her and focus on our guests. Most of them will depart tomorrow, leaving us in peace to establish our new lives. I will have time to talk with Madge then, after I have seduced my husband.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

In the evening, there are games and conversation. Music and laughter. Primrose plays on the piano to great appreciation and the atmosphere is cheerful, lively. Haymitch and Peeta engage in a game of chess. Aunt Effie and Angelica Mellark somehow find common topics to discuss. Henry reads and on occasion joins in with the ladies’ conversation. Madge embroiders and I sit content with my book. A strange sort of domestic tranquility settles over the group. Frivolity continues into the evening and yet my book fails to win my interest.

In fact, the warmth of the scene lulls me into a relaxed, almost dreamy state. I blame the exhaustion of the past few days as I am jostled partially awake, lifted into arms and held against a solid chest.

“If you could assist her in preparing for bed, Mary.”

“Of course, Mr. Mellark,” I hear Mary answer as I am moved through the hall. “Poor dear has had an exciting few days.”

“Haven’t we all?” he says and I hear my maid chuckle.

“Where is Mrs. Everdeen?”

“Upstairs with the Master.”

It is a haze of movement and whispers. I drift in and out, only aware of vague instructions that I follow until I am tucked in and content, fall asleep. 

In the middle of the night, I wake, startled by thoughts that finally coalesce. I sit up and stare at the back of my husband’s head as he sleeps in the chair, seemingly at peace.

“Curse him!” I mutter. He evaded me, the bastard.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Our wedding guests depart, and I discover just how inept I am at seduction. I am thwarted at every turn. Peeta fabricates all manner of excuses to remain out of our room until late at night, past the time I fall asleep alone in our bed. Other nights, if I attempt to stay awake with him, I inevitably fall asleep in a chair or sofa only to have him carry me to bed and leave me alone there, still a maid.

Madge frets over me, concern apparent in her eyes each morning at the breakfast table as I struggle to hide my growing fatigue. I do not know how to tell her that my lost sleep is due not to a situation similar to hers, but to an entirely different dilemma. She might tell me how fortunate I am to not have to suffer my husband’s amorous attentions, and that would only aggravate me even further. My only consolation is that my husband appears to be suffering the same affliction as I. The circles beneath his eyes gradually darken and his limp grows more pronounced. My indignation grows with them.

“Mr. Brutus comes to call this week to discuss terms of sale,” I tell anyone who will listen one morning.

“Is that usual?” Peeta asks and Madge’s eyes dart between us. I can see her increasing desire to ask private and prying questions. I hope she does not. I am not sure how to answer them.

“Yes, they are fond of establishing terms of sale in person.”

“Perhaps you should have Peeta with you for that meeting,” my mother suggests and I scowl at her.

“Mr. Brutus knows me. Father always had me present at our negotiations in the past.”

“Yes but your father will not be there this time.”

“Are you suggesting I cannot handle the bargaining and sales on my own? That I need a man to accomplish it for me?”

“Of course not, Katniss,” my mother answers with clear exasperation. “I am simply considering the implications of you conducting business alone with two men.”

“I am married now. That affords me some freedom and protection from scandal, does it not?”

“I think perhaps,” Peeta says softly, leaning towards me as though we are conspiring. I turn my head to better hear him as he continues, “that your mother means to protect Mr. Brutus from your strong will and any hard bargains you might drive, madame. And perhaps from that ferocious scowl of yours.”

This, of course, only serves to make me scowl at him and he grins in response. After a beat of silence, Prim’s laughter rings out. My mother smiles and I lift one shoulder in indifference. “It is not my fault if a man cannot hold his ground in negotiations with me. Very well then husband, if you must attend, by all means, do so to protect Mr. Brutus from being intimidated.”

I can feel Madge’s eyes on us through the entire exchange and my cheeks heat in shame and embarrassment. I feel as though I am somehow lying to her, yet I do not know how to soothe her concerns for me.

Two days later, Mr. Brutus arrives with his son to conduct business.

“Ah, Miss Everdeen. A pleasure to see you again. Where is your father?”

“My father is indisposed, Mr. Brutus, I wonder that you had not heard.”

“I did hear of his accident in spring but had hoped he would recover by now.”

“Unfortunately not.”

“I am sorry to hear it. Surely the rumors of a recent wedding are false then? I cannot fathom Miss Primrose marrying without your father’s blessing.”

“My sister is not married,” I say, spine stiffening at his words, at the assumption that it must be Prim who married. Am I so undesirable that everyone believes it impossible for me to find a husband? “Now are there any changes you wish to make to--”

“I am glad to be reassured of Miss Primrose’s prudence,” he says, turning to share a strange look with his son and it occurs to me that perhaps Mr. Brutus means to see his snivelling son wed to my sister. Not likely. “Surely it is unseemly to negotiate with your father indisposed? Miss Everdeen, a young, inexperienced, and unmarried woman--”

“Mrs. Mellark,” I say. It is the first I have demanded someone refer to me by my married name and causes a strange tingling in my skull.

“I beg your pardon?”

“It is Mrs. Mellark, not Miss Everdeen. The rumors of a wedding were quite true, Mr. Brutus, only not in regards to my sister. How rude of me to neglect introductions. Mr. Brutus, this is my husband, Mr. Peeta Mellark,” I turn then to find him standing right beside me, if slightly behind, in a position of support and solidarity. He inclines his head to Mr. Brutus and his son as the introductions continue.

“My dear girl how did this happen?” Mr. Brutus asks, near to sputtering.

“It took a great deal of convincing on my part, I am afraid,” Peeta says, giving me what can only be termed as a very convincing look of complete devotion. “But I fell madly in love with her and simply could not allow her to escape.”

“Yes,” I say with as much charm as I can muster at his complete lie. “I could not imagine my life without you, husband.” 

There’s a brief flicker of something in his eyes, but he deflects whatever his thoughts were, lifting my hand to his mouth in a gesture of affection. It gives me the chance to gather my wits and refocus on Mr. Brutus. “My father would be more apt to encourage the continuation of life as normal, Mr. Brutus, than to have his family wallow in sorrow and allow the farm to deteriorate. So if there are no further objections, shall we adjourn to the study and order refreshments?”

“Very well then, if you insist.”

As we turn to enter the study behind the Misters Brutus, Peeta offers me his arm. My hand shakes slightly as I take it. He covers my hand with his, and presses down, leaning over to whisper in my ear. “They are already shaking in their boots, atremble with fear. You’ve no idea the effect you can have.”

I am uncertain what that means, or even if it is meant as compliment or insult, but I’ve no time to discern which as Mr. Brutus launches immediately into negotiations

“Mrs. Mellark, I have issue with this price for the sage.”

“Indeed?”

“Yes it is much too high. It will fetch no profit at six pounds a bushel.”

“That is the same price you paid last year, and as I recall, you were quite pleased with your profits.”

“Indeed but demand for such herbs has lowered.” That, I know to be a lie.

“What price then do you suggest?” I barely notice Peeta accepting tea from Mary and pouring for us as the younger Mr. Brutus stares at my husband. Is it so shocking that a man might pour tea?

“Four pounds.”

“A one third reduction? Mr. Brutus, that is ridiculous.”

“Yes of course. This is why ladies should be left to the tea service and the gentlemen to the bargaining. Were it left to them, we would pay our entire income for a trifle,” Mr. Brutus states as he accepts the tea from Peeta. “Don’t you agree, Mr. Mellark?”

“Not at all. Mrs. Mellark is an expert on the functions of her farm and the values of her product. If you are disinterested in a fair price and exceptional product, no matter. We have other buyers more than willing to meet our price.” I glance at Peeta, uncertain where he is taking this as he hands me my tea. It is true that we have other buyers, but the Brutuses have long been one of our larger sales. “Here you are, my dear.” I thank him for the tea. “Isn’t that right, Mrs. Mellark?”

“Indeed it is,” I say automatically, too bewildered to question or contradict him. Such a thing might make the situation worse than I have already done.

“In fact one such buyer plans to expand our market beyond the borders of Panem. Oh dear, I cannot seem to remember the name. Harmon? Blackthorne?”

“Hawthorne,” I say the name most present in my mind that fits and Peeta snaps his fingers with a bright smile.

“That’s the one! Mr. Gale Hawthorne. He is traveling abroad at the moment but should pay us a visit...within the fortnight, isn’t it dear?”

“I believe so, husband,” I say, catching on to his game.

Mr. Brutus blusters still, yet his son engages with him in furious conference. Peeta’s eyes meet mine as he sips his tea, almost tranquil. If I were not looking directly at him, I would miss the subtle wink he sends me.

“We are loyal customers, Mrs. Mellark. You cannot in good conscious sell our wares to someone else.”

“On the contrary, I can. Until you sign, the wares are not guaranteed for you. Mr. Hawthorne has offered a most generous price.”

“How much?” Mr. Brutus squeaks.

“Five percent increase from last year,” Peeta says. My stomach drops and I attempt to signal that this is too much.

“Ridiculous! I shall offer you a two percent increase.”

“Three,” I counter. “A bargain for an old friend. A sign of my father’s respect for your business acumen, Mr. Brutus.”

“Done,” he says and smiles as though he truly did just achieve a bargain. “Shall we discuss terms for this goat cheese your father mentioned in his last letter to me in the spring? I am most intrigued by the possibility.”

“Of course. Shall we ring for a few samples?”

The meeting proceeds quite smoothly from there, and as Peeta and I stand on the front steps, waving farewell to our visitors, I watch Peeta in my periphery. Today has given me a new appreciation for him, and when he turns to face me again, I am struck with my good fortune in finding, however unknowingly, such an apt partner and ally, despite our remaining differences.

“Have I anything I need apologize for?” Peeta asks me, true concern in his eyes. I consider my feelings on what he did today, but I do not feel that he did anything to demean or countermand me. True that he showed how smoothly he is capable of lying and yet I feel...empowered. I set out to find a business partner, not a romance, and that is precisely what I seem to have gotten. A partner I can rely on. He suggested that his presence would protect Mr. Brutus from my biting tongue and stubbornness, yet it turns out that what Mr. Brutus truly needed protection from was Peeta and I working together. 

  
“No. Nothing today, husband,” I tell him and he smiles, tilting his head as if in regret.

  
“I shall try harder tomorrow then, wife.”   
  
“Well, it shall be a new day with fresh opportunities.”

  
“If it is to be spent with you, then I look forward to it.” 

Once more, he lifts my hand to his lips, no audience, no buyers to convince, and the effect of it is overwhelming. A brush of heat up my arms that gives rise to the thought that perhaps I am failing so completely at seducing my husband because he is attempting to seduce me, in a different way.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The days begins to shape a pattern. In public, Peeta and I are the picture of domestic tranquility. It is strange how easily we work together. How simple he makes the labor and how smoothly he defers to my judgement, even when people first seek his approval as the man. Our encounter with Mr. Brutus and his son is only one example in what becomes a pattern of us working together, and I quickly learn just how dependable my husband truly is. He is as at home laboring beside the common folk -- as evidenced by the day he spends digging and shoring up drainage systems after a rainstorm nearly washes away half of a field -- as he is negotiating terms of business in the parlor.

In the privacy of our rooms, it is another matter entirely.

Why does he not wish to touch me, anyways? He has proved himself most persuasive and does not hesitate to compliment me, and yet he has not used that power to tempt me into bed with him. It confuses me. I cling to the idea that he must be repulsed by my scars, although that does not hold up under even a cursory examination.

He is not afraid to touch me in smaller ways and has never once flinched from contact with me. With a grasp of my hand in assistance into or out of a carriage, he causes flutterings of sensation up my arm. A simple touch of his palm on my back, a deference of the lead to me as we move from one room to another, is like a shovel digging those unpleasant worms right back up to turn my innards into a squirming mess. I will not even speak of what happens when he assists me down from Sagittaria after our daily rides. 

Each day passes much the same as the last. The hours while the sun hangs high in the sky are spent dealing with the business of the estate, preparations for the harvest and for selling our wares. Contracts are drawn up and signed. The goat cheeses we now offer in all their varieties of flavor begin to take off with great popularity. There are moments of quiet when I will catch Peeta working diligently over a book he seems to carry with him at all times. I wonder at the contents but do not muster the courage to ask just yet. 

In the evenings, after retiring to our chamber, Peeta and I will sit before the fire and share a drink. We restrict our talk to that of the business of the estate and family. Everdeen -- all of his concerns seem to revolve around Everdeen. It is unemotional and forthright. It is maddening.

When it is time to sleep, he remains in the chair. Most nights he removes his trousers and I think his false leg as well. I cannot be certain as I am too occupied hiding beneath the sheets, battling an insane desire to demand that he consummate our marriage. Why? I ask myself. He has given me what amounts to a stay of execution and here I am considering pulling the lever on the guillotine myself.

Most nights, I lay awake and analyse each brush of fingers at the dining table, and most especially each reassuring squeeze of my hand or comforting caress of my shoulders when father’s health looks to be taking a turn for the worse. Caresses on my scarred shoulder, nonetheless.

What remains of my hold on my quest to seduce him disintegrates when my mother asks Peeta about his time in the infantry at dinner one evening. He speaks of several of the foreign lands he has been to, strange cultures that sound lovely and exotic -- and so exciting. He enchants the entire table and I am left feeling small, inconsequential. 

My husband has seen the world, experienced so much of life. Despite what Haymitch said of the absence of any lovers in Peeta’s past, I cannot believe it. I have already determined that he is capable of enormous discretion. A soldier traveling in foreign lands would have a much simpler time disguising his dalliance with a mistress or lover. No one would think twice about it nor consider it amiss for him to have such worldly experiences. What do I know of seduction compared to the exotic women he has likely lain with? Absolutely nothing. Of course he is not tempted by me, why should he be? The last time I attempted any sort of flirtation or seduction before this, it turned out horribly. I drove away every other potential suitor and then my intended eloped with another woman! 

I sit vigil over my father that night rather than going to bed and facing the chasm between Peeta and I. It must be near midnight when my mother wakes me.

“Katniss, darling you should be in bed, not here,” she whispers, soothing back my hair and kissing my brow.

“I was worried about Father,” I argue and she nods.

“As am I. We shall ask Doctor Aurelius to make another visit as soon as he is able. In the meantime, your husband surely worries after you.”

I do not argue with her, although I am certain he could not care less. Gathering the frayed ends of my resolve, I return to my bedchamber only to find it empty. Peeta’s coat is draped over the chair as usual. The fire, left unattended, has burned down to mere embers. 

I disrobe and change to my nightdress and dressing robe before examining the area where he sleeps for clues to his whereabouts. His book which he usually carries with him is set on the small table, open to a page. I should not pry so, but my eyes are drawn to it despite my intentions.

An exquisite sketch of Maysilee smiles up at me from the parchment, her youthful glee over the flower in her hand sparkling with such light, even rendered so in charcoal pencil. I gasp and snatch up the book, forgetting Peeta’s privacy as I turn the pages, reversed from here to the front of the book, and marvel at the drawings he has made. Dozens of pages filled with renderings of Everdeen and her people, her teeming wild life and cultivated life as well. Beauty leaps from every page, leaving me breathless and misty eyed.

There are a few scattered pages that have been torn from the book, as though their presence angered or offended the artist. Then I find one of a beautiful woman with softness and love glowing in her expression. It stops me cold. I do not recognize this face at all, but the way Peeta has so lovingly depicted her, I know that she is exceptionally important to him.

Now the coldness lives in my veins as something that has never before occured to me strikes deep in my heart. There are pictures of everyone at Everdeen -- Maysilee, my mother and Prim, any number of the servants and laborers, even Madge and Haymitch and Aunt Effie -- yet there are none of me. Only this strange woman with her soft smile. Perhaps in marrying me, Peeta lost someone he loves, someone he wished to marry.

I dare to flip another page to find more of my mother and Prim, more of Everdeen, one of Cicero and Joe. Near the front, there are several more pages torn from the book and then the drawings shift to people and places I do not recognize -- with the exception of his brothers and their families. The strange woman makes several appearances throughout. She is the one constant. The drawings grow somehow darker and more disturbing the closer I get to the start of the book, until finally, I reach the beginning. Staring aghast at the first ten pages, I discover distant battlefields, bodies in agony, hazy nightmares, the haggard face of a tired man.

I move to return the book and then decide against it. No, I wish to know more. I wish to know more of the nightmares that plague him. I wish to know who this woman who crosses my husband’s mind so often is. What place in his heart she holds.

Clutching the book tight to my chest, I venture forth into the midnight darkness of my home to seek out Peeta and confront him with my questions. My bare feet grow cold and I chastise myself for not pausing to don slippers. Noises from the kitchen alert me to human presence and I turn in that direction. The sight that greets me halts my tirade on my lips.

In the light of the fire, Peeta stands dressed in a simple shirt and trousers, his sleeves rolled up and flour kissing his forearms. His hands are sunk into a mass of dough as he kneads it with fluid motions. A stray lock of hair falls across his forehead, his blue eyes intent on his task. My mouth falls open at the domestic scene before me.

I must make some sort of noise that draws his attentions to me. Pausing in his motions, Peeta lifts his head and smiles at me, the expression slow, soft and welcoming, yet also shy in such a way that I momentarily forget about the strange woman in his drawings.

“You have discovered me, madame. I hope you do not mind.”

“I am not precisely sure what to think… since I do not know precisely what you are doing.”

“Kneading bread dough,” he offers and I can’t stop the short note of laughter.

“That much is clear. What is not clear is the why.”

“It helps me to relax.”

“That is a strange hobby for a soldier and field medic, the son of a marquis, to assume,” I say and he shakes his head.

“But not so strange for someone raised as the child of a baker.” I do not know what to say in response to that and remain silent. He sees my confusion and uses one hand to beckon me into the kitchen.

“Are you hungry? I confess to baking one of the loaves meant for tomorrow to sate my own hunger. This is meant to replace what I plan to eat.” He motions to the dough on the table before returning to his task.

Intrigued, I slide the sketch book into my robe and enter the room, taking a seat opposite to where he works.

“Is this where you vanish to in the night? When you are trying to avoid me?”

“Ah, I see I have not been as subtle as I would have wished,” he says and glances at me, holding my gaze for a moment before he continues. “Please understand, it is not meant as an insult. I simply needed something to help me sleep. This helps.”

“You say you were raised by a baker?” I ask rather than dwell on the hurt I feel, despite his reassurances.

“I did not always live with the name Mellark,” he whispers and sudden warmth fills my cheeks. Haymitch urged me to ask of Peeta’s past, and yet I did not, perhaps to protect myself. More likely to protect my animosity towards him. If I remained angry with him, righteous over the way I was forced into marriage, it was easier to forget that Peeta was forced into this marriage as well. That seems silly now, although there is still the strange woman in the sketch book to contend with. Perhaps I can learn her identity as well if I learn of his past.

“Where did you live before? Before you went to live as a Mellark, then?”

“With my mother,” he says simply and gives me another smile, this one sad. “My real mother.”

“What was she like?” I ask, drawn in to the story before he even begins, seduced perhaps by the crackling fire and the comforting smell of spices and herbs and yeast that lingers in the kitchen.

“She is...she was...beautiful.” I fold my feet beneath me and arrange my robe for warmth and comfort.

“Tell me more?”

“You really wish to know?” I nod eagerly, curiosity eating away at my patience. 

“I would not ask if I did not.”

“Very well. She was not glamorous or wealthy, Katniss. She was a maid. Specifically a lady’s maid to the three daughters of a very prominent and wealthy family. The ladies my mother served… their names at the time she began her employment were Tabitha, Fanny, and Chastity Hilston. When Tabitha was married, my mother remained with Fanny and Chastity at their parents’ estate.”

I blink and search my memories for a connection. The name sounds vaguely familiar. Peeta seems to recognize my quandary and, slapping more flour on the table, flips the dough and resumes kneading.

“You would know her as Lady Tabitha Mellark, Marchioness de Vale.” I stare at him in shock and shake my head, denying the truth of where I sense this story is headed. “You still wish the sordid tale, madame?”

“I--” I swallow and search for courage. I find it in the challenge in his blue eyes as he levels a stare at me. Sitting straight, I nod to him. “Yes. I wish to know your origins, husband. Your past and all your family’s secrets shrouded in darkness. You have become privy to mine, after all.”

His lips twitch and he watches his own hands as he works and speaks.

“It is quite simple, really. Moving through society as someone no one wishes to see and is therefore generally ignored, I have since seen it more frequently than I would care to acknowledge. A man of wealth, power, and privilege can claim most anything he desires with little consequence, even in the home of another wealthy man. 

“The Marquis, even after they were wed and had children, would often take his Marchioness home to visit her sisters and parents at their country estate -- how thoughtful of him allowing this family connection to continue rather than cleaving her from her beloved mother. They would bring their children and stay for some time. While there, Lady Tabitha would enjoy the service of her old maid who served only her sisters once she herself had a much fancier lady's maid befitting her title. And the Marquis...well he demands a different sort of service of the maid.”

“He raped her?” I ask, appalled and Peeta shakes his head.

“I believe so. I speak based only on the conversations I overheard between my mother and my father as a child. I do not think my mother fought the Marquis or denied him in so many words, but I believe that is because she felt that she could not. But not fighting, a sort of frightened acceptance of the thing, is still not equal to a desire to participate in the act,” he says. I mull over that for a moment. “When I was a child and Lady Tabitha would visit with her husband and sons, my mother would inevitably fall ill. She would sequester herself, despite Lady Tabitha’s pleas for her former maid to dress her and fix her hair.

“I did not understand the connection, nor why my father would insist that I stay in the kitchens and work with him during those visits. I was scarcely allowed outside the servant’s quarters while the Mellark family was present.”

“Your father?” I ask, confused momentarily with his choice of words.

“The man who raised me. The man I knew as my father until I was ten years old.” He pauses then to set the dough aside to rise, covering it with a cloth and checking the bread in the oven.

“The baker then? You knew the baker as your father.”

“Yes,” he says, using the paddle to remove the bread from the fire and setting it on the table before me. He sighs as he takes a seat, the steaming and fragrant loaf between us. “That will need to cool before we slice it.”

“Then you have time to tell me more,” I say and he folds his hands together, tilting his head to examine me.

“You are not scandalised yet?”

“I am not so fragile as that,” I whisper and he smiles. It courses through me, warm and comforting as the bread cooling between us.

“No you’re not, are you? As you wish, madame. The man I knew as my father was named William Thackeray, and he was a baker at the Hilston country seat. He and my mother, Nancy, had fallen in love as children living and working there. They had plans to marry when the Marquis...took liberties he should not be allowed. When my mother discovered she was with child as a result, she attempted to break her engagement with William. He refused, insisting that he loved her and that they could still marry and raise the child as theirs. Which is precisely what they did for ten years.”

“You had a happy childhood then?” I ask, touching the loaf of bread, my fingers dancing lightly over the crisp, golden surface to avoid burns.

His eyes dip to the motions then back up before he continues.

“I did have a happy childhood. Loving parents, a cousin who was the child of another serving couple and a dear friend--”

“Delly?”

“Delly,” he confirms with a smile. “As I have told you before, she was like a sister to me.”

“So then what happened?”

“My father -- William, the baker -- died when I was ten. For years, my parents had kept me separate from the Mellarks when they came to visit, fearing the truth coming to light. Until then, no one looked closely enough at the servant’s child to notice. There was no reason to. That year, without my father around to keep me occupied and protected, and with my mother fighting her usual response to the presence of the Marquis, worse this time without her husband around...well let’s just say that Lady Mellark was furious to find her youngest son playing with a servant boy who looked to be his brother.”

“No.”

“Yes. You can imagine what happened. My mother was let go, dismissed without references and thrown from the house with her son and little else. She struggled for close to a year to support us, I helped any way that I could, but no family nearby would take her in and the city offered only questionable sorts of employment for a widowed mother with no references. One day, when we were both nearly dead from hunger, she stole a bar of soap and told me to wash. It was pouring rain that day and bitterly cold. We took to the streets, she claimed so that she might find work, but instead she knocked on the door of the Mellark household.”

“Oh Peeta,” I gasp, holding my nightdress collar closed against the imagined feel of the rain, against the heartache Nancy Thackeray must have felt in giving up her son.

“She demanded that the Marquis see to the needs of his illegitimate son, if nothing else, demanded that at least her child be cared for since he had cost her everything. I will never forget the things Lady Tabitha called my mother that day, but the Marquis...he accepted. He promised my mother he would give me his name, educate me, give me a future and a home, raise me as his son. On the condition that she would leave and never see me or any of them again.”

We sit in silence, the fire the only sound as the pop and crack of the wood does little to dispel the chill in my bones at his story.

“Some days, I am convinced he only did it to anger Lady Tabitha, to remind her of the power he holds over the lives of everyone around him.”

I blink the unwanted tears from my eyes and bring forth the sketch book from my robe. I stare at the cover and then glance up to catch his furrowed expression. “I am sorry. You left it on the table...open and…” I cannot finish and find one of the many drawings of the strange woman. How desperate and sad she must have been that day. How terrified Peeta must have felt, abandoned and lonely in a strange home with strange people, many of whom likely resented his presence if not outright loathed him for it. How sad and confused he must have been for months, perhaps years of not understanding why his mother had left him so. “This is your mother...is it not?”

“Yes,” he says softly.

“What happened to her?”

“I do not know,” he says, and I hear the resounding crack of pain and regret in his voice. “I never saw her again after that day in the rain, although I have looked for her.”

He takes the book from me, running one finger down the side of the page before shutting it and setting it aside. I watch his fingers splay over the cover as something else strikes me.

“That day in the rain -- with me -- when you brought me home,” I prompt and he confirms with a nod.

“I had news of someone who might be her. That is where I was headed in such a hurry.”

“Oh no. Peeta, I am so sorry,” I whisper as guilt floods through me. His warm fingers brush over mine and pry my hand free of my dressing robe. 

“I was days late, Katniss. Practically a week late, in fact. Not hours. By the time I arrived, whoever she was had moved on long before. Stopping to help you did not cause me to lose her trail again. It was already cold.” I stare down at our hands as he winds our fingers together. It is comforting, this small touch, almost a promise in itself as I realise just how much of his heart he has revealed to me, entrusted to me, tonight. When I lift my eyes, he’s watching me with a steady sort of trust or understanding. 

“And to think I was angry with you so long for not dismounting. Such a silly thing and--” Peeta’s laughter halts my words.

“I imagine that had I dismounted to assist you, we would have both wound up in the mud.” He leans over and I cannot help but chuckle at the strange sound his fist makes on his false leg. “But enough of that, we should not let this bread go to waste,” he says and stands abruptly, releasing my hand to pick up a knife and slice the bread. 

I reach out to halt his motions, my hand on his wrist. He stares first at my hand then into my eyes. I take a deep breath and rise up to kiss him.

A brief touch of warm lips and a flutter of pulse is all I am allowed before he lifts his head away from me and places his hand on my shoulder, shaking his head as I wonder what objections he could possibly have now.

“Pity is no better a reason than duty, Katniss.”

“It is not pity I feel right now.”

“Then what is it?” He asks the question, still close enough that were I to pitch forward the slightest bit, we would be kissing instead of speaking. I search my heart and attempt to put a name to the thing blossoming inside me and yet I cannot.

“I do not yet know.”

“At least you are honest. I would rather have the truth between us, wife. The last kiss we shared with false ideas in our heads did not result in much good.” He gently pushes me back and I sit heavily as he continues slicing bread. “When you determine what it is, and if you still wish to kiss me, then perhaps I shall kiss you back.”

I grip my braid as he sets aside his knife and looks around the kitchen.

“Do you happen to have any goat cheese? Perhaps some apples,” he says and I stand, glad for the task. I find what he needs, and with a few more swipes of the knife, Peeta hands me a slice of bread, spread with goat cheese and topped with apple slices. “And now, wife...it is your turn to tell me a story.”

“What sort of story?” I ask and he thinks for a moment.

“A happy story, I should think.”

I hum and bite into the treat Peeta has made us, closing my eyes to savor the tastes as they caress my tongue. Finally, I settle on a story, telling him of the time Father took me into town to purchase a birthday present for Prim. I had the most elegant blue ribbons selected for her, but on our way home, we stopped to speak with the Goat Man. As my father conversed, I gazed into a pen where several goats were busy feasting on their lunch.

“I was not paying nearly close enough attention and one of the goats snatched Prim’s ribbons right out of my hand and ate them! I started shouting and kicking up a fuss, so loud that my father thought the goat had bitten me. When he finally discerned what had happened, I demanded the slaughter of the goat so that we might retrieve the ribbons.”

Peeta laughs at this, preparing a second slice for each of us. “You were quite bloodthirsty. So then what did he do?”

“He bought the goat with the condition that the goat man provide an undigested blue ribbon. I tied the ribbon around the goat’s neck, after lecturing her that she was not to eat any more ribbons, and that was Prim’s birthday gift instead.”

“That is a very happy story,” he says, our fingertips brushing as he hands me the slice of bread.

“Indeed. That goat produced excellent milk. You are in fact eating cheese made from the milk of one of her many granddaughters.”

“The beginnings of your goat cheese empire then,” he says. “All born of your love for sister.”

“The goat owed me after eating those ribbons,” I say, lifting my nose in a haughty gesture.

“And she wouldn’t dare disappoint you.”

The night hours dwindle as we talk and eat, sharing pleasant stories of childhood and friends. When we are both full and content, we clean up our mess, bank the fire, and walk upstairs. Peeta is limping again and so, despite my freezing feet and the beckoning of my bed, I slow my pace to one that seems more comfortable to him.

When we reach our room, a strained silence fills the air. I twist my braid round my fingers, round and round as I consider my next course. Do I kiss him again, and risk another rejection? I was telling the truth, it is not pity that I feel for him, but something more akin to...understanding. He opens our door and then pauses, stepping aside to let me pass first, ever the gentleman. I move to do so.

“Wait, Katniss,” he says, stepping forward and filling half the opening. I might still pass by him if I wanted, but I find myself standing perfectly still, gazing up at him as he caresses over my cheek, back to my ear. He takes a breath and leans towards me, halting with a pained look on his face, close enough that I can see the freckles that grace the bridge of his nose, each individual lash. They are so long that I wonder how they do not tangle when he blinks.

“I told you that I would spend months courting you, would you grant them to me.” An almost foolish happiness forms in my chest and I strain to keep it contained.

“Are you asking to court me, then, husband?”

“As best I can, given the circumstances.” His fingers trail down my neck, over my scarred shoulder with layers of fabric still between us.

A smile curls my mouth upwards at the idea. It is so sweet and endearing and utterly maddening. “I will...allow it.”

His smile mirrors mine then and he once more laces our fingers together, as they were downstairs. “Then allow me to escort you home, madame.”

I nod and turn into our room, trailing Peeta behind me and then beside me as we approach the bed. It rises in the darkness, draped in welcoming fabrics like the arms of a lover, inviting whispers and secrets. I turn and lift on my toes, kissing his jaw, not out of pity or duty, but because I wish to do so.

He assists me onto the mattress and essentially tucks me safely beneath the covers before turning towards the fire and his chair, a soft smile on his face. For one moment, I consider inviting him into the bed with me, but as I lay down and finger my smiling lips that still tingle with the scrape of his stubble beneath their caress, I think that such a kiss is a very good start indeed.


	12. Chapter 12

My dreams are pleasant and I wake to warm sunshine and cheerful bird song. When I sit up and examine the room, I see that Peeta is already awake and gone, but no matter. I feel as though we have made excellent progress, now that I know more about him. So many questions remain, about his life as a Mellark, but as last night proved, he is willing to provide them. Perhaps during our ride today we might discuss it some more.

As I enter the breakfast room, my eyes find him first. Maysilee sits perched on his knee, detailing their adventure for the day. As if sensing my presence, Peeta meets my gaze with a soft smile and an unexpected heat in his eyes. My toes curl in my shoes as I picture how that expression might appear in shadows and candlelight, between just him and I and our bed.

I think I need a confessional today.

I am ahead of myself, however and halt my musings. I do not even know my husband’s birth date nor any number of other inconsequential to momentous details about him. I know that he is a baker, an artist. He prefers to sleep with a window open. He always knots his cravat without the use of a mirror and he never takes sugar in his tea. I know the name of his true mother and father and the nature of his rather humble beginnings, yet there is so much more to him. I already know this and am quite eager to find out more.

And to think of how determined I was to proceed right to the consummation without the courtship. Why though? Perhaps to prevent a connection or affection from forming between us, to convince myself that he is the brute I believed him to be that first day we met. Now that I know the source of both his haste and his reluctance to dismount, I feel quite bad about my initial assessment of him, although I do not know if I am so low as to sabotage my own marriage. Perhaps then it was a desire to be done with it, to not have the deed hanging over my head, or perhaps still it was a means to make myself feel superior to Peeta. That last is ridiculous in light of the manner he has approached our lives together so far -- as a partnership, an alliance as he called it that first time. But allies must be equal, each contributing to the further well being of the other and of the alliance.

This courtship idea of his is quite sound, I admit to myself. We now have the chance to get to know one another in a way we were not given time to before our wedding, which I hope can only serve to strengthen our bond.

I choose to ignore that the reason for my not knowing Peeta well is that I focused on pursuing his brother as a potential mate and not Peeta. Why did I make that choice anyways? Was it because of Peeta’s birth or because the one meeting I had already had with him unsettled me so? If the first, then I am a despicable and judgemental creature. If the second, then my judgment in general is suspect. Sir Robert had seemed a safer choice at the time, but his elopement with another women shows that to be utterly false.

I further ignore the man in the mask. Whichever brother it was that night can have no bearing on my future with Peeta. I must judge the character of the man before me, not dream of some fantasy that may have been a complete lie. And thus far, as my mother said that first day, it appears that I have before me a very fine man indeed.

Although I had little choice in our engagement, I have control over how I approach our marriage. I could do so with scorn and resentment, but that will do no one any good. It benefits no one to live in a household with the lord and lady ever at odds. No, I choose now to face my marriage to Peeta as he has done -- with an open heart and hope for better things to come. At the very least, we can be good friends and equal partners in our life together.

I force myself into the room as Maysilee reclaims his attention. Standing at the sidebar, I fill my plate. I shall need extra sustenance today, I think. I do not plan to end this day a stranger to my husband nor he to me. Peeta can still take his time with all the niceties and pomp in courting me if he wishes, but I need to know as much as I can learn about him today.

Madge stands from the table and presses close to my side, questions in her eyes.

“What is it?”

“You practically glow this morning, Katniss,” she whispers. “What happened between you last night?”

“He told me about his mother -- his birth mother,” I say, eyes averted. I can feel blood humming in my veins, rising to stain my cheeks pink and know that I will not get away with secrecy, yet I cannot stop thinking about what it means that he trusted me with such knowledge, and oddly enough, I cannot stop thinking about what kissing him in truth may feel like.

“That is not all that happened.”

“No,” I concede and then sneak a peek at the pair still engrossed in their breakfast and plans.

“Tell me, Katniss. The suspense and worry are killing me.”

“There is no reason to worry,” I say. 

“So then… he has not hurt you? Been...unpleasant or rough at night?”

“Hurt me? No!” I whisper furtively, glancing over my shoulder and relieved to find Peeta engrossed with both Maysilee and Prim.

“Oh you’ve no idea how relieved I am to hear that. He seemed such a gentleman, and his treatment of you appears above reproach, but I suppose who we are behind closed doors is never the same and both of you seemed so… so tired and distressed in a quiet sort of way and…” her words trail into breath and I stare at her for a moment.

I snort quite loudly. Madge’s brow draws together. We both check that no one eavesdrops before I explain, because I can hold it in no longer.

“On the contrary, Mr. Mellark is the utmost gentleman in the bedroom. One could say he is  _ too much _ of a gentleman.”

“Oh.” She thinks for a moment and then her eyes widen. “Oh! You mean that he hasn’t…that the two of you have not...” She waves her hand about in a vague motion as I purse my lips and shake my head.

“He says he wishes to court me first.”

“But...you are already married!” She hisses under her breath and I smile, sly and satisfied with my next words.

“I think it terribly sweet of him.”

“Astonishing,” she says and we both turn to take our places at table. She whispers one more thing before we move within hearing range of the others. “There is still hope then for a truly blessed marriage.”

Hope. The feeling flowers inside me at her words.

“What are you two whispering about over there?” Prim asks and I refocus on my food while Madge diverts attention from me and our whisperings.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

I am unable to ascertain more of Peeta’s past during our ride as Doctor Aurelius arrives just as we are headed out, with plans to finally remove the plaster cast my father has worn since late spring, when Doctor Aurelius was finally satisfied with the setting of the bones broken in Father’s accident. A good thing too, as I have heard whispers that my father has been in and out of fever the past few days, but the source has remained a mystery. 

I am distracted as we ride, unable to enjoy our time together. Sporadic winds kick up dry dust and the heat is stifling today. Even though I chose to wear breeches today, something I have not done in some time, I have sweat like a pig and am excessively dirty and disheveled in no time at all. Peeta suggests we cut our outing short to return, and I eagerly accept. 

As we ride up to the house, Madge greets us, taking Sagitarria’s bridle in her hands. “Doctor Aurelius is still with your father. He wishes all of us present. I fear the news is not good, Katniss.”

I leap from my horse and hurry up the stairs, breathing hard as I enter the room.

“What news?” I ask, as I approach Doctor Aurelius. My mother barely looks at me and even Prim is subdued. The lack of response to my appearance confirms that the news is not good. The stench in the room is my second indicator of how bad the news must be. True there has been an overall smell in Father’s room, more stale than foul. This is undeniably foul.

“One moment. This is news all of you need hear, as it will affect the entire household.” I huff in impatience as we wait. When Madge and Peeta join us, she closes the door and Doctor Aurelius nods. “Mr. Everdeen remains in his coma, unresponsive. There was always a risk of bed sores given the length of time, as well as infection. Come and see for yourself.”

He moves aside bed linens and the sleeve of my father’s shirt to reveal discolored skin, an angry red with sheets of it that have peeled off. I cover my mouth and nose at the pus oozing from several blisters. Doctor Aurelius shows the cut away cast, the sheets of discolored dead skin that have accumulated and adhered to the cotton interior.

“Gangrene,” Peeta says behind me and I turn to face him. Tears cloud my vision, making a muddled mess of his image, hazy and distorted like those drawings of his from distant battlefields.

“Quite. It has advanced too far already. I must amputate this arm immediately.”

“And if you do not?” I ask as my mother bends over my father, clutching his good hand, shoulders shaking with her quiet sobs.

“Your father will be dead in a matter of days.”

“Then amputate,” I say. “Take the blasted arm off!”

The doctor gives me a sympathetic look and Peeta’s hands grasp my shoulders, rubbing them soothingly.

“It is not that simple, Katniss,” my mother says, lifting her tear stained face.

“There is a chance the amputation itself will kill him. There is risk of further infection, a severe fever or even pneumonia in response to the amputation, it is possible that the infection began deep in his tissues at the same time as his fall or during the resetting of his bones and is only now manifesting where we can see it. In that case, it may have advanced further up his arm than I am able to observe and an amputation will not solve the problem at all. It is risky with a coherent patient. I have never amputated on a comatose one.”

“But there is a chance he will survive?” I ask and the doctor nods. “And no chance at all if you do not?”

“That is correct.”

“Then amputate,” I say again. Both of us look to my mother. She manages to nod in assent.

“What do you need from us?” Primrose asks.

“I will need assistance with the operation itself. Perhaps two people of stout constitution with some modicum of physical strength as well, a background in healing or medicine would be ideal...” Doctor Aurelius looks between my mother and my sixteen year old sister, clearly not impressed with his options. My mother has barely left the house since Father’s accident and has ceased all of her duties as healer. Without Mother’s supervision, Prim has had little practice in the past few months either.

Peeta steps around me then. “Doctor Aurelius, I have been present during a few amputations, although I am neither doctor nor healer. And...I have survived one.”

“Have you really?” The doctor squints at my husband.

“My left leg, sir.” The doctor’s gaze drops as if he could see through Peeta’s trousers. “I would show you, doctor, but there is an odd assortment of ladies present to include my wife and her as yet unmarried sister. I doubt that their mother would appreciate such a display.”

Madge laughs first, only a note or two, then strangely enough my mother joins her and Prim as well. Doctor Aurelius even cracks a small smile.

“Very well. Your assistance will be welcome, Mr. Mellark. I shall send for my kit, as I did not bring that one with me. Mrs. Mellark I need a boy to run the errand.” I move to the door and shout for Horatio. Doctor Aurelius eyes the clear evidence of outdoor exertion on Peeta’s clothes. “And you shall need a bath and change of clothes, Mr. Mellark. Then we need one more—“

“I will do it,” Mother says, rising from her chair on unsteady feet. 

“Are you sure that is a good idea, Mrs. Everdeen?” The Doctor questions. Her resolve seems to waver a moment, and Peeta moves to speak directly to her.

“Madame, you know what we will need. A good, hot fire; supplies similar to what you would use to dress a laceration that requires stitches, in greater abundance as it will need to be cauterized,” Peeta tells her gently. 

My mother nods and leaps into motion. The doctor watches her in astonishment, but it seems that having something to do for my father has given my mother purpose again. She is a healer, and having both brought many a babe into the world as well as held the hands of countless dying, it seems that what truly crippled her in this case was the waiting and impotence in regards to my father’s care. There was nothing she could do to revive him from his coma except to sit and wait.

“Katniss, we will also need a schedule of persons, perhaps in pairs, to sit vigil afterwards and tend to the wound we shall create. He will need observation at all hours of the day for a few days. See to the organization of that?” My mother says, even as she moves about the room.

The house becomes an uproar as a fire is built up in the grate in my parents’ room. The windows in every other room thrown open to release the heat that seeps through the walls. The door is strictly monitored to reduce the number of insects entering my father’s sick room. Supplies gathered. Baths ordered for Peeta and myself. 

I’ve no time to linger in the room adjoining the kitchens, designed by my father to meet my mother’s needs as a healer. A clean body is less likely to contract infections, she would remind us each time we complained of the frequent baths she demanded of the entire household. My father, in an attempt to appease his wife as well as to ease the burden of carrying hot water or the large brass tub up stairs for baths, designed this room and oversaw its modifications. I take only a moment to appreciate the high windows that admit light without compromising privacy, the clean design of drainage, and wonder if this bathing room will be one of the few things we have left of him at the end of this week. 

I dare not linger too long, though. Scrubbed clean and dressed in a simple gown, I gather the household and set a schedule for watching over my father for the next few days. Horatio returns with a leather bag for Doctor Aurelius and disappears with it into the chambers.

Silence descends. I pace the hall, unable to sleep as the doctor suggested I do to prepare, as I will sit the first watch with Charles. We eat a sparse lunch and after, Madge keeps Maysilee busy, distracting her from the somber mood that has covered my home. I cannot even hold my sister as she’s insisted on being present as well. As a healer in training.

Just as I am certain I can take no more, Maysilee yawns. “We should take you upstairs to nap.”

“Wanna nap here,” the child whines and Madge soothes her back a moment. “Mama, play music?”

Madge kisses her daughter and rises, settling Maysilee on the sofa with a blanket before moving to the piano. She sits and glances at me for one moment and then begins to play. 

The melancholy notes drift through the house, entering my soul and permeating deep. I find stillness through them and close my eyes, recalling the words to the tune. On a deep breath, I release one line and then another. My voice cracks at first, uneven and hoarse from months of no singing at all. As the song continues and Madge ends it only to begin another on its heels, I sing. I sing until my voice warms and grows to something splendid, as it was on days when I would sing with my father.

With steady voice, shaking hands, and tears on my face, I sing and pray that my father will survive this day. I know not how many songs I sing as Madge plays, but when the notes from the piano stop abruptly and Madge gasps, I turn to face the door.

Peeta stands there, looking exhausted and with red speckled on his sleeves. I do not want to consider the amount of my father’s blood that was shed today, but Peeta nods to me. 

“He is alright for now.” 

I take three steps and then fling myself into his arms. He holds me tight to his chest and we stand there, feeling one another as the birds sing outside. When we move apart, he holds my cheek in his hand. I do not even know how to describe the look that he gives me then, only the effect that it has on me. He is so calm and so steady in this moment, when I feel as though my world is crumbling to pieces. I need not be strong for Peeta, as he knows what anguish I live in right now. His hold on me reminds me that I can survive this. We can survive this, and all hope is not lost.

“Go see him,” he whispers and I need no more urging to race up the stairs.

The room is unbearably hot, although the fire has been extinguished for now. My father lays perspiring in his bed, his body twitching, already caught in fever. My mother wipes his face with a damp cloth, her hair a mess and her eyes distressed. Servants gather stained sheets and dressings and aprons, bustling from the room with grim looks on their faces.

“When did he become so thin?” I ask no one and no one answers.

“I should have seen it,” my mother whispers instead.

“Mother, it is not your fault.”

“I fear that it is. I spent so many days sitting beside him, waiting for him to return to us, that I...I told myself I could not become a ghost. You were engaged to be married. Primrose spoke of Mr. Hawthorne with such fondness and… Life was passing by and I was spending it here, neglecting my daughters for a husband who might never return to us and I tried to right it. I tried to right it and instead failed your father. I should have—“

I halt her words with an embrace and hold her until her tears are spent. “You could not have seen beneath the cast, Mother.”

She sniffles to end her cry and nods. “I shall sleep well knowing he is in your care now, Katniss.”

My mother kisses my cheek and then leaves as Charles enters. Ours is the longest watch, beginning as soon as the operation is deemed complete and continuing to midnight, an easy time for all to remember, and a chance for all who shall sit vigil to complete tasks or to sleep as needed. At midnight, we will begin our regular rotations. Charles and I work through the evening and into the night, refreshing bandages, bathing Father’s fevered skin. Charles nods off and I sing quietly to my father, wishing that perhaps I had done so sooner, as my mother had once asked of me. 

When Madge and Joe relieve us near midnight, I head to the kitchen, unsurprised to find Peeta there, kneading dough. Words are not needed between us as I sit, and yet as he works, we begin to talk. I speak of my father, as though sharing all my cherished memories now might somehow preserve his spirit. Peeta listens and encourages my words. We eat slices of a hearty bread, heavy with nuts and grains, a goat cheese with dill in it melting into the pores, all topped with slices of cucumber. Then we retire to our room.

Somewhere in the middle of the night, Peeta wakes me from a terrible dream. I cling to his shirt and refuse to let him go until he climbs into the bed with me. I fall back asleep wrapped in his arms, his fingers caressing over my shoulders and back.

It becomes our routine. The entire household moves in rotations, everyone showing the strains of long days and long nights. I sing to my father on my shift with him. After a late night of keeping watch over my father, I join Peeta in the kitchens. He bakes. We talk and eat. And then we retire. After that first night, he does not even bother falling asleep in the chair, but settles beside me in the bed. He is there to wake me and comfort me from the terrible visions of the night.

The fears are easier to manage with him beside me in the darkness, warm and steady, healthy and whole. A survivor of such an ordeal, his wholeness gives me hope to cling to. In the mornings, he rises early to take his turn caring for my father, kissing my cheek before he goes. I hunt and take Sagittaria for long rides. Life somehow continues in this strange way.

“Is this how you lost your leg?” I ask one night in the kitchens as the stars burn and Peeta kneads dough for tomorrow’s bread. Mrs. Rooba, our cook, mentioned that she has begun to leave some for him to work on each night, since he seems so fond of it. I watch his motions as another question forms in my head before he answers the first.

“No,” Peeta says. “I did not lose my leg to gangrene, although I saw others who did lose limbs in this manner.”

“Then how?”

“A sword,” he says simply and I think he will not continue as the silence stretches. Then he does. “It sliced deep enough that I needed a tourniquet or I would have bled to death. The ironic part is that my job was to care for the wounded soldiers who could be saved, treat them enough on the battlefield that they might be then moved to the medical tents. If I could not help them at all...they perished on the field.

“Most days I was not in the midst of heavy fighting, but rather followed the movements of the soldiers. That day, I was...overwhelmed with patients and did not notice the shift in the tide of fighting until it was too late and I was suddenly in the thick of it. I applied the tourniquet to myself after I was wounded and continued to help others whom I could drag myself to reach, but when the fighting was over, I should have been left where I lay.”

“Someone moved you?”

“Joe. As a horse trainer and stable hand, he had a gentle touch and demeanor with the beasts and could coax them into places they would otherwise shy from. He drove the cart that moved the wounded from battlefield to medical tent, and then the dead to their graves when only the dead held the field. Joe and I had already become friends of sorts. He lied to the others about how close I was to death and ordered them to get me on the cart, after I had already told him to leave me.

“By the time I was moved to the medical tent, there was no saving my leg. The doctor amputated immediately, sutured and cauterized, and then left me on a cot, bidding me good luck in surviving.”

I stare at my hands then, thinking on how close he must have been to dying that day.

“Your father does not have an easy road, Katniss. If he survives, there will be a host of challenges when he wakes.”

“But you have survived it, so you know how,” I say and lift my gaze to him. “Will you stay to help?”

“I have no plans to leave,” he tells me. Such gravity in his eyes as he makes his promise to me. I add it to the ones he gave me on our wedding day, and for one moment, I am certain that he is going to kiss me. So of course, this is when a soft, silly laugh bubbles out of my mouth. “What are you thinking of?”

“That I would not describe Joe as having a gentle touch.”

“Only where horses are concerned,” Peeta says with a smile and we both manage a laugh then. It is a relief to still be able to laugh.

I begin to form an enticing though not yet complete picture of my husband.

“You are more familiar with that bread than I would expect someone who ceased baking at ten to be,” I say on another late night.

“I did not stop at ten.”

“You would sneak into the kitchens of the Mellark household to bake then?”

“It caused a great deal of lectures and strikes of the strap. Such a chore is beneath the son of a Marquis, apparently.” I silently fume at his words. Although I am not surprised to hear that the Marquis resorted to such punishments, as it is quite common, I know that they are not necessary. My mother and father never once struck us that I can recall. Why would one wish to cause your own child physical pain? It seems a brutish practice to me.

“At first I would bake during the day, with the servants, but when the Marquis and Marchioness began to blame the cook for encouraging inappropriate behavior in their ward instead of blaming me for convincing the servants to let me, I began to bake at night instead. By then I was old enough to not need any supervision in the task and no one would suffer except perhaps our poor arithmetic tutors who could not entice me to stay awake for lessons.”

I laugh at the image of a stern man in spectacles attempting to wake a tired Peeta as he dreamt of bread rather than equations.

“It must have been so lonely and confusing for you.” I watch a hundred emotions pass across his face in seconds and know that I have found the truth of it. His adjustment to living in the Mellark household after a mostly happy childhood with William and Nancy Thackeray was not at all easy.

“In many ways, it was...but I did have one brother who became an instant friend and ally. He was more interested in my skill as a playmate and at talking our way out of scrapes than who my parents were.”

“Robert,” I say and cannot meet his eyes, although I see Peeta nodding in my periphery.

“Robert was the only one in that household whose acceptance and welcome of me was both immediate and unconditional. He called me his twin and his brother the very first day and never stopped. He defended me to those who would use my birth as an insult.”

“You must love him a great deal,” I whisper, thoughts of the things Peeta did in the name of protecting his brother foremost in my head. What would I do to protect Prim? Marry someone I knew did not wish to marry me? In a way, that is precisely what I did in marrying Peeta.

“I do. He is my brother. I love him as you love Primrose,” he says and finishes with tonight’s loaf.

Four long days after Doctor Aurelius amputates his arm, my father’s fever breaks. It is during my shift, and I cry out with relief as I feel the sweat finally cooling on my father’s brow, his skin clammy and cooling as the heat dissipates. Charles is near asleep on his feet by then, and I send him to fetch Peeta to relieve him and help me. Peeta and I bathe my father and cover him with a warm blanket, changing his dressings one last time as the day ends, and a new begins. My mother enters as soon as she receives word.

“Thank heaven,” she says when I confirm the change.

“He remains unconscious,” I remind her.

“Yes, but it is enough for now.” She takes Peeta’s cheeks in her hands and pulls him down so that she may kiss his brow. “Thank you, dear boy, for taking care of my Kent. You are nothing like your father at all and such a welcome addition to our family.”

She hugs me and tells me to get some rest, reminding me that the crops will keep. 

We walk through the house in silence as I consider my mother’s words and before I can think of something to say, we reach the bath room and Peeta speaks first. “You go ahead. I will see about some food for us.”

“That sounds lovely,” I say.

After I bathe, as Peeta takes his turn, I find a tray of food in our room. I am famished and dive right in to eat. My eyes droop, and as much as I try to stay awake, I am unable to do so. I wake to Peeta tucking me beneath the covers and protest when Peeta does not join me but moves towards the sitting area instead.

“Peeta?”

He shakes his head from the chairs and arranges a pillow. “Your father is out of immediate danger. I assumed that meant that I should--”

“Don’t be ridiculous. Get in the bed,” I say and his eyes widen for a moment. “You are keeping me awake, husband.”

His lips twitch and he nods, joining me, pausing only to sit on the edge of the mattress to remove trousers and false leg before laying beside me with a relieved sigh.

We shift and move, trapped in a sort of limbo of uncertainty. Do I touch him? He has held me every night since Father’s amputation and now we lay with an ocean of space between us. On those nights, even though he held me close, I felt a thousand leagues away, drifting in a haze of concern for my father. Tonight, despite the space between us, I am very aware of Peeta’s presence. 

I roll to my side, attempting to discern his profile in the dark room and unable to do so. I listen for any snoring and discover none. I wait and listen to each sound around us, the steady cadence of breath in the night as we attempt to find sleep. I shift to my other side, with my back to him and stare towards the window. The drapes drift on the breeze, revealing brief hints of moonlight. 

I cough once and then he moves. His warmth approaches me and even in darkness, I can feel him watching me. 

“Is there something you want, madame?” I swear I hear laughter in his voice, but do not care as I reach behind me, feeling through the sheets for his hand. Once I have it, I wrap his arm around me until he moves closer, close enough for us to settle in an intimate embrace. “Better?”

“Quite,” I say. “Now hush so I may sleep, husband.”

“Yes, wife,” he murmurs, but his lips brush the back of my neck as he does and I cannot stop the delight that simmers inside my heart as I find sleep.


	13. Chapter 13

The house feels reborn as the fog of fear lifts with Father’s fever and the immediate worries of him not surviving his amputation dissipate. 

It is strange to see my father with his arm truncated so, but having caught glimpses of Peeta’s limb in bed at night, I am neither shocked nor repulsed. As Peeta said, there will be obstacles to my father living his life should he awaken, yet it is not impossible. He will still have my mother, my sister, myself, and all of our love.

I wonder briefly how Peeta and my father would get on. I think of Peeta’s kindness and patience, his wit in moments when no one else seems to know what to say, and smile to myself. I imagine they would get on splendidly, as soon as my father recognises that Peeta’s surname does not define his character. As my mother pointed out, Peeta is nothing like the man who sired him.

Even more so than the past few months when Father lay comatose with nothing we could do for him, the world has felt suspended the past few days. Now the immediate fear is gone, I feel as though I need to press forward with life, with tasks that fell neglected as we cared constantly for my father. To that end, on the morning after Father’s fever breaks, I head to the study and find Peeta before we head out for our daily ride.

“I have a project I wished to discuss with you, husband. Several projects in fact,” I say as he lifts his head and startles at my presence. He stands and I smile at him. 

“Shall we discuss your projects as we ride today?”

“I should think so. Bring your sketchbook and drawing supplies with you,” I tell him. He retrieves it from the desk, taking two sheets that hang loose and quickly stuffing them in the drawer that has become his. 

As we move towards the stable, I briefly outline my idea, explaining how my mother and father are a wealth of knowledge on the plants in the area, both wild and cultivated, edible and medicinal and poisonous. I explain how the bath room made me realise just how much we stand to lose if my father perishes. For now, we can start with what he has passed on to me, and what my mother can provide, recording it into a book for safekeeping that we can always add to later.

“What do you think?”

“I think it an excellent idea,” Peeta says as we pause in the meadow, beneath a sprawling oak tree. Peeta uses the rope he now carries with him on his saddle at all times to dismount then helps me down as well. His hands linger on me for a few seconds longer than is necessary, but I find that I do not mind at all. We then spread the blanket beneath the tree to relax. “How can I help?”

“With the illustrations,” I say, surprised he did not realise. “Unless you do not wish to.”

“No, I would love to help. When shall we start?”

“How about now?” He laughs as I stand and hurry to gather a few samples from our immediate area. We are soon engrossed in our work, Peeta sketching as I explain uses and growing seasons, life cycles and distinguishing characteristics. I write as I talk. It is quiet, absorbing work and as we ride home, I feel a soft sort of contentment wash over me.

There is more work to be done that afternoon, and my father is not completely out of danger yet, and so I still spend late evenings on towards midnight by his side. It becomes an easier routine to manage now that the stark fear of death no longer haunts every corner.

Life continues. There is a lightness and happiness that permeates the halls as my father slowly recovers. We continue with our shifts, ensuring that his bed remains clean, his limbs exercised, and his body free of further infection. Doctor Aurelius visits and congratulates us on making it through the first stage.

During the days, there is always work to be done. We make excellent progress on the plant book. I rather enjoy watching Peeta’s hands while he works. As he draws, his face takes on an intense expression of concentration, as though there are thousands of worlds and thoughts of beauty locked away inside his head where only he might see them until he pours them onto parchment. I become fixated on those long lashes of his, so delicate and lovely in the sunshine. And also on his lips with their many different attitudes of expression. I attempt to catalogue each smile or frown or other look of his, much the way we do with the plants and flowers. And at night…

At night I share a bed with my husband, yet he maintains a distance between us. It becomes more and more difficult to respect that distance and what it represents. Perhaps this is what Peeta intended in refusing to touch me. To taunt me with his nearness and yet deny me what I truly want.

...What I truly want?

The question makes me sit up in bed and stare at the sleeping visage of my husband one night, nearly a week after my father’s fever has broken.

Do I truly want to consummate my marriage now? Do I desire Peeta the way he wishes me to do so? Granted, we have had a number of pleasant days together working on our record of plant life, and I feel completely safe and secure with him in not only my room, but my bed as well. He has lain beside me at least a fortnight without so much as presuming to kiss me. Such piety and abstinence! It is enough to drive a body mad! 

Yet I feel as though there is still something missing. Peeta has done so much for me and my family, stepping up without question or complaint in every arena we have thus far faced together, all while asking little to nothing in return. A leather strap in the stables to make mounting his horse easier, a few loaves of bread to bake, and that is it. That is all he has asked for himself. It seems so...so wrong.

And yet it does not take me long to decide what exactly I can do for Peeta. It might be a failure, and so I do not mention it to him. I would hate to lift his hopes needlessly. Instead, I wait until the following night, as I sit vigil over my father.

By candlelight, I tap a quill on parchment, staring at my father’s motionless form and wondering how best to word this most delicate missive. I do not wish to...pry, nor to give the impression that I do not trust my husband. It is not a lack of trust that spurs me to do this. Not at all, and finally, I begin with that. The truth of the matter. I wish to help him as he has done for me.

_ Dear Uncle Haymitch, _

_ Life in the country is as dull as ever. Do not expect a visit from us soon as Father is still unresponsive and I rather dislike all the smog the city seems to enjoy keeping close to her bosom. _

_ Marriage is a curious thing, although I think I am succeeding quite well at it. In that regard, however, I have a rather large favor to ask of you. You, with all your connections in the city, are best able to see it done. I need your help finding someone who is dear to my husband and will likely be difficult to discover... _

I fill the pages with as many details as I can recall Peeta telling me — his mother and father’s names as well as the estate where they were employed, a general timeline of when William passed, Nancy was let go, and Peeta was left at the Mellark household. It is possible that Peeta’s lack of success in finding his mother is due to his carrying of the name Mellark, a sure signal to Nancy that whoever it is inquiring after her can mean no good to her. Not even Peeta, as she did promise to never see him again. It is possible that she is too far into hiding in order to avoid her own son or to ensure her own employment, free from past “transgressions.” Inquiries from an unattached party — such as my uncle — may have better success.

When I finish the letter, I retrieve from my pocket a drawing that I pilfered earlier today from Peeta’s sketchbook. Given the number of pages he has torn from the book, I am hopeful he will not miss this one of his mother. I fold it together with the letter, seal it, address it, and take it downstairs to the table so that it shall be included in tomorrow’s post.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

For the first time in months, I feel excitement with the arrival of the daily post. It is too soon to hear from Haymitch and yet I cannot help the quick trip of my heart nor the smile on my face as Horatio hands me the post after breakfast. He returns the smile and gives me a happy wish for a good day as he heads off to finish his chores.

I shuffle through the letters, dividing them into piles. There is yet another letter for Prim, from Rory Hawthorne. I gnash my teeth but set it aside for her, heeding the wise words of my friend for now, although I should speak to Peeta about perhaps funding a season for Prim soon. I would much rather she have a chance at several suitors -- to be certain — before she settles on this one.

In addition to the normal letters of business for myself and a few for Peeta, there is another with a heavy crest in the wax seal...a crest I have become unfortunately familiar with. Gathering both of our piles, I seek him out and find him where I expect him, in the library, selecting a book to read later today in moments of leisure.

“Your post, husband,” I say and he accepts it with a smile, an expression that turns serious as he sees the seal of the Marquis de Vale on one. 

“Thank you,” he says. We settle in to deal with our mail. When both of us are done, we walk together out to the stable.

It is a beautiful day and yet I cannot help but feel that Peeta is preoccupied. His smile is not as easy and his words more sparse than usual. When I mention it, however, he smiles brightly at me.

“No need for concern. I was, however, wondering more about harvest time around here. Are there any traditions we need see to?”

After that, he seems to be his normal self and we converse at length on what needs yet to be done to prepare for the late summer harvest as well as the fall harvest of our crops.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Ennui strikes its hardest blow in the evenings, when the sun still lingers in the sky and yet the chores for the day are done and dinner consumed. We lounge in the drawing room until youth kicks up a disturbance.

“Mother, we’ve not been to a town assembly in ages. Why can we not go tonight?” Prim asks, a cajoling pout on her face.

“It is already late dear, and I cannot leave your father.”

“He is so much better!”

“We could have dancing here, Prim,” Madge suggests and moves to the piano. “I will play. You and Katniss can dance.”

“Oh yes!” Prim squeals. In a flurry of pink fabric and protests, I am pulled to my feet. Primrose is shockingly strong for her size. “You are married now, sister, so you must play the man. No excuses!”

Madge strikes up a lively tune and for one moment, I glance at Peeta, wondering how he must feel being left out of such festivities. He smiles at us, his hand resting on his open sketchbook and several dried flowers spread on the neighboring page. His work stops as we take the first few steps, and soon I am laughing and spinning with my sister.

At one point, my mother begins to clap along in time. We dance and dance into the night until I can hardly breathe. As Madge finishes the fourth or fifth tune with a flourish, I spin Primrose straight towards my mother and she falls laughing into her embrace. As Mother whispers loving words to Prim and kisses her brow, a sadness claims me. Yes, I think, something is missing and I make excuses, wandering out to the hall where it is dark, cool from the lack of bodies, and quiet.

Light from the drawing room makes an eerie slanted rectangle on the floor behind me as I stare out the window. Peeta’s uneven gait approaches me and I lean back into his touch as he rubs my shoulders in a soothing manner.

“Something troubles you?”

“I am not sure,” I admit and we stand there for a moment, our image a hazy reflection in the glass as the sun dips below the horizon and the sky shifts to a darkened gray-blue streaked with gauzy purple clouds. I do not know how to put into words the feelings inside me.

Mother’s laughter reaches me then and it occurs to me that my parents used to dance as a second couple with Prim and I on nights such as this. Before I can consider the implications of that thought, Madge begins to play a much slower tune. I listen for a moment and then turn to face my husband. “Will you dance with me?”

“I wish that I could,” he says, taking one of my hands in both of his, lifting it to his lips. 

“The music is not fast, Peeta. You must have danced before and remember some of the steps. No one will see you, save for me...please?”

He still looks uncertain, but shifts how he holds my hand and raises our arms over our heads. I cannot stop the smile from splitting my lips as we move through careful steps. It is not a complicated dance, the one he has chosen, in fact it is an older dance. Several years old as I recall dancing these steps with Madge, before the fire, before I was scarred. I hear distant echoes of memory, and while Peeta’s hesitant movements reflect the uncertainty in his features, he does not stop. Our fingers curl together, then apart. We step through a slow circle, close to one another and then back. Every so often, we must pause an extra beat or two for Peeta to regain his footing or shift his balance before we continue, but it is a forgiving song that allows such caution. 

Madge plays on, the tune longer than the sequence of steps, and so we begin again from the start. Peeta and I dance in the growing moonlight. His steps falter once. I pause with him and wait a beat to catch the count of the dance on the next bar, and then we continue once more.

When the song comes to an end, he does not step back and bow right away, but we remain as we are, so close.

“Katniss,” he murmurs and leans towards me. My chin lifts, but his torso bends and I watch him bow over my hand. “Thank you for the dance, madame,” he says then returns to the drawing room. My heart beats far too fast in my chest for such a simple dance and I use the excuse to flee upstairs.

After I am changed for bed, I lay there and contemplate what passed between Peeta and I. He claimed to wish to court me, although my father’s infection and amputation caused that sentiment to wither for a time. One could make a case that the only normal aspect of Peeta’s courtship of me thus far has been our time together working on the plant book. Even our time spent baking in the kitchens is a bit unorthodox since we are usually dressed so casually or in night clothes for it. There is also the matter that it is more something I would expect from a married couple, not a couple that is courting.

But we are married, I remind myself. It is all so confusing.

Tonight’s dance was the first thing we have done that resembles a traditional courtship. And yet, as I drift into sleep, still waiting for my husband to join me, I am oddly tingling all over and wondering why I feel so... disappointed… It is in the fog between dreams and rest that the truth settles in my breast, never to relinquish me from its grasp. 

I wanted him to kiss me. Almost desperately. 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

I wake fully rested and refreshed. It is most welcome after the several weeks of long, hard days. Welcome until I realise that I have slept late. Far later than I am accustomed to doing. For a moment, I am annoyed at Peeta for allowing me to sleep so late, but as I rise and stretch, I see that he is not here. His side of the bed remains disturbingly tidy. I wonder if he straightened before he left our rooms for the morning or if he refrained from sleeping beside me entirely. I do not recall him joining me in bed last night.

Moving to the window, I enjoy the sunshine for a moment before deciding it is time to face the new day. It promises to be a glorious day and I have slept away too much of it already. At first, I attempt to dress myself so as to not bother anyone, as it is very late and Mary has likely moved on to other chores. I soon find myself paying for my indolence and calling for Mary. She hurries in only to make excuses.

“Of course, ma’am, I can’t find Miss Maysee. She’s run off again on another sort of adventure. Countess is near beside herself this time. As soon as I find her, I can assist you in dressing,” she says, panic in her eyes.

“Find Mr. Mellark! She’s likely hiding in a game with him or some nonsense!” I shout but my cries fall on the door and not human ears. “Excellent. An excellent start to the day.”

I reach behind me, grasping for laces, but each tug tells me what I already know. I am only making a greater mess of this. Still, I refuse to yield. I feel behind me and make calculated pulls that only entangle the laces further. I growl in frustration and consider going without the damn thing to today. The door opens then and I sigh in relief.

“Oh thank God. Where was she, Mary? On an adventure with Mr. Mellark?”

“I -- pardon, madame.” My head whips around and I find Peeta now making excuses to abandon me. “I did not mean to interrupt. I thought you already awake and out for the day.”

“I would be, could I reach the damn laces properly.”

“Excuse me,” he says and opens the door. “I shall send for Mary.”

“She left me like this! She is looking for Maysilee.” I shout and he pauses. “I am trying to do this myself and making a muddle of it. Could you please just--”

I am close to tears, ridiculous as it may seem, and am trying mightily not to let him see me shed them. Of all the things to make me cry after the events of the past weeks, I refuse to cry over corset laces. 

He nods once then shuts the door, stepping swiftly to stand behind me. His hands move over my back, loosening and untangling the mess I have made.

“You have done this before?” I ask and he stops.

“No. I have not laced a woman into a corset before.”

“But you have...you have removed a corset?” His hands resume their motions as he releases a strained chuckle.

“How am I to answer that, madame? If I say that I have, shall I be met with your fury or disapproval? And if I say that I have not, will you believe me?”

“Yes, then,” I say, a hot fury sparking to life in me.

“I am not as familiar with the workings of a corset as a ladies’ maid would be. In truth, I am guessing here. Perhaps some assistance, madame?” His words give me pause.

“Then you have not removed many?”

“No, I would not characterise it as ‘many.’ Do you wish me to recite the list or would you rather I focus on yours?”

“If the laces are now untangled, then simply draw them tight, one section at a time is easiest,” I tell him and grasp the bedpost with both hands. I feel small tugs and then he pauses again. “You are not done?”

“If I tighten anymore it shall hurt you,” he whispers, his breath warm over my scalp. “Will it not?”

A sudden laugh rises up in me as I look back at him. His cheeks burn a ruddy shade of pink and he cannot meet my gaze. Not so many corsets in his past after all then. Perhaps only one or two.

“I am not so fragile, Peeta.” Now his eyes lift to mine and a small smile curves up one side of his mouth.

“Fragile is never a word that I would apply to describing you, madame.”

“Then get on with it and do not worry about me.”

“You will tell me if I am too rough?”

“Yes, I will tell if you are too rough,” I say with as much exasperation as I can muster. It strikes me then as odd that I am so at ease with him seeing me in naught but my undergarments. Then again, we have spent the past more than a month since our wedding dancing around one another’s partial or full nudity, sharing a bedroom and then a bed, yet he has never once taken advantage. He grasps the laces and I suck in a breath as he pulls tight. “Tighter.”

He does as I instruct, forehead creased in concentration. It is rather endearing actually, his concern for me as he laces me up and then ties the laces in place. I release a satisfied breath when he is finished.

“Thank you, sir.” Only he does not move as I expect him to. 

I turn and startle at how close he still stands to me, grasping the post now behind me as a strange dizziness sweeps over me. His body sways towards me and his eyes roam over my shoulders, over the swells of breast pushed up and held aloft with the force of feminine underclothes. I am suddenly aware of how intimate this moment truly is, perhaps even more so than the removal of my garments might be, although I feel as though I am about to discover the veracity in that sentiment. 

My heart pounds in my breast. My nails dig into the wooden bedpost, and I wonder what move my husband shall make next. His eyes darken and fixate and then his hand lifts my braid from where it has sat, draped over my shoulder and down my chest. His fingers caress over the twisted strands. His scent surrounds me, a now familiar element of my life as my skin awakens to his proximity, eager for his touch.

Our breaths sound strange in the quiet air, only a random creak of the house or song of the birds outside the open window provide accompaniment. I feel the tight embrace of the stays in my corset with each deep breath I take yet I cannot seem to calm it at all.

Peeta’s eyes slowly drift up to my face and I feel more undressed as he looks into my eyes than if I were completely naked.

He drops my braid, his hand rising and passing my ear to rest on the bedpost behind me. It is not so romantic as a dance in moonlight, and yet it is far more intimate to me, the morning sun turning his hair to a golden halo, his eyes a dark blue, almost like the cool waters of the lake where I learned to swim. 

And his lips, open and inviting, a pale pink that makes me think of a fancy cake I once ate in Capitol. The hostess had called it chiffon frosting. Would Peeta’s lips be as sweet, gentle, and soft as that frosting? I lift my chin and I close my eyes, anticipating the feel of lips on mine. 

The sounds of childish laughter and Maysilee racing down the halls outside our door reach my ears, followed by Mary calling after her and then... a low growl. 

I open my eyes in time to watch Peeta slip away from me, using the bedpost to shove himself back. Cool air replaces what was warm beyond measure a moment ago. I stagger forward, following him with not enough speed to catch his retreat. There are five silent steps away from me before he halts and clenches his jaw.

“Forgive me, madame,” he says. “If you no longer require my assistance, I shall leave you in peace.”

“No more assistance needed. I can manage the rest well enough,” I say in a hoarse voice, and he bows then leaves me alone with my thoughts even more muddled than before.

A shuddering breath escapes me as realisation douses me in a chill. Here I have been operating on the assumption that Peeta wished to court me first, has refrained from touching me, out of some sense of nobility or chivalry, but in this moment, I wonder if perhaps as he has come to know me, now that he has seen my scars uncovered in full daylight, he has simply discovered that he can feel no desire for me. Perhaps I was the only one wishing for a kiss just now.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

“It seems so strange, to be out of mourning finally. I did not mourn the earl in my heart at all.”

“Hm,” I hum in agreement and scowl at the letter in my hands from one Mr. Gale Hawthorne. His concerns about my father and any potential marriage between his brother and my sister are the least of my worries right now. I toss his letter aside to deal with later.

“Even in his passing he controlled everything from who I might visit to where I might be seen, wearing which colours. I feel so...so free and so silly all at the same time. It’s like I am sixteen all over again, whispering with my dear friend about sweethearts and first kisses.”

“Mm-hmm.”

“Although now we’re grown and we both know that kisses can sting and love is not so easy and -- listen to me, I am turning morose.”

“Hm.”

I focus now on a letter from my father’s solicitor in town. His concerns regarding the sale of our harvest are far more prescient to me right now, as the late summer harvest will begin in a matter of weeks, and then the fall crops just two months after that.

“Katniss? The pink or the yellow?”

“What?” I ask, lifting my head and scowling at Madge as she holds up one dress then the other.

“For my first day officially free of mourning.”

“Does it really matter, Madge? You shall be stunningly gorgeous in either.” I snap and Madge gasps.

“Oh. I am sorry to have disturbed you.”

Only, I have disturbed her. It is her room that we are currently in, after all. I escaped here after an earlier than usual morning ride -- without Peeta -- left me feeling oddly queasy. He has been avoiding me, my husband. 

During the day, he works harder than ever, throwing himself into every task I ask of him and more. From caring for my father, to the kitchens, to the fields, he is constantly busy. So much so that by the time he collapses into his chair at night for a drink with me, he inevitably falls asleep there. On nights when I attempt to wake him to encourage him to move to the bed, he claims he has already removed his false leg and it is therefore easier to remain where he is. I think it an excuse to sleep in the chair again rather than next to me.

Strangely, though, little has changed in the way that he treats me during the day. He is still kind, solicitous, hard-working, and thoughtful. Anyone watching would deem us an excellent partnership. There is, however, one notable difference.

Ever since our shared encounter with my corset laces, Peeta has avoided almost all physical contact with me. It would be quite comical if it did not hurt me so. Whereas before, I did not believe he found me hideous because he showed no reluctance to touch me, now I question that judgement. He flinches back from me and avoids contact as much as possible. His behavior in every other regard, however, remains unchanged.

These new developments with Peeta aggravate and confuse me. Once again, I find myself sleeping wretchedly and glaring across the room at his snoring form.

When I do sleep, my dreams are a tangled mess. Last night, after hearing a most detailed discussion in the scullery yesterday, I dreamt of an unspeakable carnal pleasure and the act the maids had described, only when I moved my skirts to gaze upon the face of my lover, I uncovered the man in the mask. I have barely given him a thought in the past few weeks and so his presence in my dreams, in such an intimate manner, confuses and disturbs me, enough so that today I rode alone, needing the time and space to clear my head and examine what is happening in my marriage. Perhaps if I could get my husband to kiss me, I would not be dreaming of a stranger who made me feel so desired and beautiful.

No, not a stranger, and that is the worst part of it. I could very well be having impure thoughts of his beloved brother. Shame does not even begin to describe how I feel at the possibility and yet I have no control over my dreams. The rub of it is...even in my dreams, I felt disappointment when I saw who it was. That disappointment revealed to me something I have been loathe to admit, given his recent change in affections for me.

I want Peeta to be the one to touch me so, to make me feel those things in our bed. Somewhere along this twisted road of our marriage, I have come to desire him for who he is and continues to be — warm, kind, thoughtful, generous, and brave. He has been a steady presence and a source of both hope and laughter, even in the face of darkness and adversity. Haymitch told me that I could do much worse where husbands are concerned, but I am not sure that I could have done much better. 

And I fear that he now regrets marrying me, for surely he could have done much better where wives are concerned.

“I know you are quite busy with business,” Madge says, interrupting my musings. 

“No, Madge,” I say and groan in frustration at myself. “It is not the damn farm business that has me so unsettled.”

“Then what is it?” she sets aside her dresses and moves to sit at my knee, her dressing gown a soft circle around her, a reminder of just how early I was out riding to escape Peeta’s frustrating presence.

“It is this being married business!”

“Tell me. Perhaps I can help,” she urges.

I spill the entire, humiliating story, even my dreams. As the words leave me, so too does some of the weight on my shoulders, the feelings of failure as a woman and a wife, the feelings of inadequacy and ugliness. A laugh escapes her lips when I am finished and then she shakes her head. “You mean he  _ still _ has not touched you intimately…”

“Not so much as a bloody kiss. Which only confirms my suspicions that he could not be the man in the mask. That man had no troubles kissing the very breath from me and half removing my dress in the gardens.”

Another laugh escapes and Madge shakes her head at me again. “No, I think it supports his claim. He is already familiar with the effects of kissing you and wishes to avoid being swept away, given the promises he made you on your wedding night and again in promising to court you first. The poor man must be at his wits end trying to keep from touching you.”

I snort yet again as Madge rises and squeezes onto the settee next to me. I am overcome with fondness for my friend and realise how important today must be for her. She need pretend no longer. 

“You will be lovely in whatever you wear. Pink has always made your hair appear lustrous, though. Almost like a halo. Would that I had your looks. Perhaps then I might not have such troubles convincing my husband to consummate our marriage.”

“Oh Katniss,” she says and shakes her head with a soft smile. “I think if you were truly trying to convince him to do so, you would have already succeeded.”

“You think him so weak willed?”

“No, I think him deeply enamored with you.”

“Preposterous.”

“Think of it, Katniss. He won’t touch you unless  _ you _ desire  _ him _ . He wishes the feelings to be mutual and is willing to wait. He has ceded control of your intimacy to you. In a way it is...well it is far more respect than the earl ever showed me.”

“So he respects me but does not desire me.”

“You are a fool if you think that. The man’s eyes are drawn to you at every possible moment. In truth, I have been jealous of you this past week. Enough time has passed since your father’s amputation that you should both be rested and yet you are not. I thought it due to all the vigour of your night time activities.”

“Margaret!” I shout and then sober as I think of that morning when he helped me with my corset. As soon as I begin describing it to Madge, her cheeks turn pink and her eyes brighten. 

“See?” she breathes out. “He could barely restrain himself. And now, he is no doubt avoiding you in a desperate attempt to avoid temptation. All you need give him is a little nudge.”

“Do you think he might respond well if I wore nothing but a mask to bed one night?” I ask and we fall to laughing together. 

Despite our mirth as I help her dress in her new pink morning gown -- not mourning gown -- a twisted knot of melancholy has taken residence in my heart. It is fine to discuss longing looks and the idea of love, quite another to bask in the glow of its certainty and reality.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~


	14. Chapter 14

That night, I do seriously consider, as mad as it sounds, greeting Peeta in nothing but the mask I wore to the masquerade. I go so far as to strip down alone in our room and put the thing on. Then I realise how ridiculous I look and consider that he might laugh or worse, and put my night dress right back on and hide the mask.

Then I wait… and wait… for him to come to bed. I fume and huff and read. I am about to go in search of him when the door opens and he limps into the room. His movements are the most labored and careful I have seen them yet.

“Where have you been?” I ask and he stops, his shoulders slumping as I rise to my knees on our bed, fists planted on my hips.

“Ah. You are awake. I’ve been in the stables, assisting Joe and Charles with a mare who has been ill,” he says and hobbles over to his chair.

“In the stables?” I ask and fly off the bed.

“Yes,” he answers, doffing his coat and vest, then lowering himself to the chair. I stand before him, furious at his distance and the way I feel in this moment as he rubs his thigh, furious with him and at the sick mare for commanding his attention. 

Good lord. I am jealous of a horse for she has received more touches from my husband than I. Truly I have sunk to astonishing depths here.

“And what is wrong with your leg?” I ask, crossing my arms and giving him my darkest scowl.

“It is made of wood?”

“No husband, what is wrong with it is that you have been working too hard and neglecting your health. Take off your trousers.”

“Madame I do not —“

“Take off your trousers this instant, or I shall fetch the shears and do it for you!” He stares at me a moment, his blue eyes wide, astonished. Slowly, he removes his boots, his eyes not leaving mine as I tap my slippered toe to show him my impatience.

“Oh for heaven's sake,” I mutter and reach for his trousers. He makes a noise of distress as I help him with the garment, but they are off in a flash along with his undergarments, and I kneel before him. I hesitate then, as it strikes me how close I am to...him. 

Oh Lord and mercy, I start blushing and completely lose my thoughts as he thankfully adjusts his shirt and hands to keep himself covered. I started so brave and now find myself unsure. He clears his throat and I tuck my hair back behind my ear before reaching for the contraption that keeps his leg attached. I skim my fingers over it and examine the straps, at a complete loss as to where to even start.

“Have you done this before? Removed a man’s leg?” he asks and my eyes leap to his. He’s smiling slightly, although I can see that he is in pain and I cannot help but laugh a little.

“If I say yes will I be met with your fury or your disapproval?”

“Most likely with my jealousy of the man,” he says and my cheeks warm at the idea that he might be jealous of anyone I paid such intimate attention to.

“I am guessing here. Perhaps some assistance, sir?” He leans forward and shows me how to remove his leg. I set it aside and scowl at the cloth padding that provides cushion between flesh and wood. It is stained with blood and Peeta winces as I prod at the chafing and blisters on his skin. 

I begin to feel ill. It is much worse than I thought. Mother and Prim would be better at this, given how much more experience they have in healing. I barely know where to start and need a few deep breaths to order my thoughts. But I refuse to summon either of them. Peeta is my husband and I will care for him.

“It is not that bad...is it?” he asks. I turn my scowl to him.

“Not that bad?” I rise and ring for Mary. She must be close as she answers almost immediately.

“Yes ma’am?”

“I need a healing kit as quick as you can, Mary...and perhaps a light repast from the kitchens.”

She glances past me at Peeta then and hesitates. “Is Mr. Mellark injured?”

“Not severely, but that may change should he decide to be obstinate.”

Mary hides her smile and vanishes as Peeta protests. “Are you calling  _ me _ obstinate?”

“Indeed I am, husband.” I retrieve the wash bowl and a sponge then sit before him, spreading a drying cloth beneath his truncated leg. I wash the affected area then and glower at each tiny wince of his until he grips the arms of the chair and ceases to show any reaction at all.

Mary returns then with the kit. She brings Sae with her, carrying a tray of food. Slices of bread, pears, goat cheese and honey.

“I apologize for keeping you both so late, but I’ve also need of my sewing kit and several scraps of fabric. I believe they are in the drawing room right now, if one of you could fetch them.”

“Allow me,” Sae insists and both of them leave.

“That thing is useless,” I say with a nod towards the soiled piece of padding.

“That thing prevents splinters or from it being worse than it already is.”

“What were you thinking? You cannot continue like this!”

“And what is my alternative? To whine and complain? Allow others to shoulder the work intended for me?”

“You live in a house of healers, Peeta. To leave these small injuries to fester is both an insult and a poor decision.”

“You have had much bigger wounds to heal. I will be fine,” he says and I can argue with him no more or I might truly lose my temper. How could he not see how irresponsible it is for him to have left this uncared for? That is precisely what led to my father’s amputation, only Peeta does not have much of a leg left to amputate.

“Shut up and eat your pears,” I say. He sighs but does as I order. At one point, he offers a bite to me as well. I take it and thank him. He feeds us both, one morsel at a time, as I finish washing him and then carefully dry his leg.

I set to work crushing together herbs to make a paste for him as he watches me. “This should draw out any infections that may have already taken root and assist in healing the blisters. In the morning I can coat it with an oil that will soothe the chafing. You need a padding with a more open weave, and I think mayhap a sleeve to both hold the padding in place as well as protect your skin from these straps will help. Tomorrow, Mother and I can concoct a paste that will help prevent this from happening again if you insist on being so stubborn.”

“Thank you,” he says and all I can manage is a nod. “You have a talent for this. For healing.”

“My mother and sister are better at it. It is far easier to kill than to heal.”

“And yet you are not a killer either. You hunt only what you need, kill only what is needed. You are more a grower, a cultivator, a provider.”

I pause and scowl at him. “Flattery will not make me less angry with you.”

“Why are you angry? Have I disappointed you in my work? In the fulfillment of my duties?”

“Not in regards to this house and estate.”

“Then in what, Katniss?”

“Had you left this untended much longer, it would have gotten infected, and then what, husband? Would you have taken your silent suffering to the grave?”

“I would leave you with no complaints, I should hope. You would be an exceptionally wealthy and independent widow,” he says it so easily without a trace of self pity or sarcasm that it angers me further. 

“I beg your pardon?”

“One of the things I tended to while I was in Capitol before our wedding was having a will drawn up. I signed it the day after we were married and sent it back to my solicitor. It names you the sole beneficiary of our funds should anything happen to me. You will not be left dependent on the Mellark family, nor anyone else for that matter. You can cease being angry at the idea of my passing.” I stare at him, agog for a moment. “Is that not what you wanted?”

It is precisely what I wanted, and he knows it. I work on his leg, gently spreading the paste and apologizing for its chill when he hisses slightly. I cannot meet his eyes, overcome with the knowledge that he so readily saw to such a detail, without my asking or reminding him of the reason I sought out a marriage in the first place, and that he did so before we had any sort of agreement between us at all.

“I have a copy of it and can show it to you if you do not believe me, madame.”

“I suppose I am expected to throw a gala party to celebrate your death,” I mutter.

“Some cultures do so. Why not embrace that?”

“Mourning is a fine time to adopt a new culture!” I practically snarl and he sighs, scrubbing a hand over his face as though he cannot even bear to look at me, but would rather look at his palm. Or the ceiling, as when he removes his hand from his face, he tips his head back to rest on the chair and speaks more to the crown moulding than to me.

“There’s no need for sarcasm, Katniss. We both know you would be better off as a widow.” If he tells the truth about the will, then he is correct objectively speaking, and yet something inside me screams in agony at the very idea of having to bury him, of never seeing his smile nor hearing his laugh ever again.

“I would not.”

He laughs bitterly then and lifts his head to look down at me. “You’ve barely been able to look me in the eye the past few days, and I cannot blame you. I am as disgusted with myself as you must be for my weakness in nearly yielding to misguided temptations, for how close I came to breaking my promises to you.”

“What the devil are you talking about?” I secure the bandages on his leg and stand to clean up the mess, too distracted in my rage to actually have any awareness of what I am doing.

“You’ve no idea at all, have you? The liberties I took...when you believed me to be someone else. How much I wished for the way you looked at me that night to be real and… for me, not another. I should burn in Hell or at the very least self hatred for my actions and feelings. Then yesterday with your corset...I nearly took advantage of you! What sort of monster does that?”

“That is ridiculous!”

“It is not ridiculous. It is abhorrent.”

“No, it is ridiculous! I have barely been able to look at you these past days, not because I was angry with you or feared you, but because I’ve barely been able to keep from ripping your clothes off!”

The words fly between us and he sits back as though I had slapped him. I too step back, astonished at my own admission and brazen words.

“What did you say?” He breathes the words and I groan. How humiliating, to just throw such words out into the air. He is too surprised by them. Madge must have been wrong. I move to focus on cleaning up my supplies rather than focus on my careless words, but he reaches out, grasping my wrists. “No. Wait, do not go. Katniss.”

I do not know what comes over me, likely insanity or perhaps simply fatigue. I pitch forward and our lips collide together. His mouth is still opened and our teeth connect painfully, as do our noses, making me jump back and wince. He stares at me, wide eyed as I blush furiously. How stupid of me. I think I may have gotten worse at kissing since my first.

“Why did you do that?” he whispers, his hands still holding my wrists so that I cannot escape.

“I do not do a thing that I do not wish to,” I spit the words out because I am so tired of fighting, so tired of pretending that everything is fine, all is well, and that I am not ready to scream or tear my hair out with frustration. The weight of everything that has happened since spring presses down on me, culminating in this fresh degradation. I cannot even manage one decent kiss.

“You wanted to kiss me?”

“That is what I said.” I shiver slightly as he slides his hands up my arms, up to tangle into my hair as I stand bent awkwardly over him. His thumbs caress over my cheeks.

“And what do you want right now?” he whispers the words, his voice deep and curling through my body, settling as an echo in my blood as it thrums through my veins. Ever so slowly, it dawns on me that Peeta is not looking at me with disgust, nor even with dispassion, but rather with great care. I am not sure if I move towards him or if I let him pull me down. Either way, I am drawn to him. Down to his mouth as our lips touch in a tentative caress, folding together in a warm embrace as we stand still like that. My muscles shake with the effort of holding this pose, of noting everything in this moment.

The familiar and comforting scent of his body, magnified in heat. The feel of his steady, rapid exhales caressing over my cheek. The softness of his lips against mine and the heat simmering beneath our touch. I moan and let go. Why should I refrain from kissing him? I have wanted this for so long now. We are married, bound to one another until death tears us apart. Before that happens, I wish to live as a married woman, fully and completely. I wish to know the secrets between husband and wife -- between Peeta and I.

I kiss him as I have longed to do, pressing my lips closer to his, lifting my hands to hold his in place on my neck and jaw. Warmth spreads through me, such incredible warmth that I shiver with it. Our mouths move together, somehow familiar already, perhaps because I know him now.

My knees weaken as the kiss continues and I shift to sit on his lap, my legs moving and stuttering with my uncertainty. I’ve no idea where to move nor what to do. I flounder until he pulls his head back. “I am not certain how I should… I am trying not to hurt you.”

“Come here,” he whispers. Letting go of my neck, he guides my legs until I am seated astride him, my knees pressed close to his hips and his warm palms caressing my calves, up to my thighs as I resume kissing him, combing my fingers through the soft curls of his hair, sliding them over the broad planes and angles of his shoulders, down his chest to feel his heart beat beneath my palms. Its steady beat pulls me deeper into the kiss.

Just as I am wondering how he would respond to my tongue in his mouth, he moves his lips, down my chin, lower still as he kisses his way down my neck. I move, restless and spurred on by the delicious feeling of his lips on my skin, of the delightful shivers that wrack my body and the heat growing heavy between my legs, demanding an answer. He murmurs my name, his hands caressing over my back, up to unbutton then drawing my night dress off my shoulder, giving him access to more of my skin.

“Yes, please,” I plead, scarcely knowing what I am agreeing to, but I am caught in a fever and know that only Peeta holds the cure. 

“Do you feel pity for me, Katniss?” His question teases a smile from me and a feeling of lightness flutters in my heart.

“None, you obstinate bastard.”

“Duty to your marriage?”

“Heavens no, not now. Duty is for the pious and the righteous.”

He kisses over healthy and scarred skin. His hands grip my hips and pull me down. I gasp at the feeling of something hard pressed to my intimate skin, beneath the fabric of his shirt still caught between us.

I have seen a handful of naked men, although never in an aroused state. It is sometimes inevitable with a healer for a mother. While some part of my mind knew that for copulation, a man’s sexual organ would become engorged as an animal’s does, I have never been impressed with the sight of a flaccid one, to be honest, and had no idea of how such an odd looking organ could incite desire in a woman...or anyone for that matter. 

Feeling the reality of Peeta, however, hard and present, insistent and pressed tightly to my own sex, is another matter entirely. A small spark of fear, curiosity, and yet mostly desire, dances to life inside me. I am overjoyed at the evidence that Peeta does in fact desire me. I find further relief and also torment in the movements over him as I discover exactly how such a thing could incite desire in me.

“And this is certainly not pious, husband,” I whisper and tear at his neckcloth until his shirt gapes open for me. I grab hold of his hair to pull his head back that I might taste his skin as he has tasted mine. He must enjoy it as I kiss and suck at his neck, if the curses and moans he releases, his tightened hold on me, are any indication. I smile in pride to myself. It appears that I am improving at this seduction business.

“Tell me to stop. I will stop if you demand it,” he whispers then curses as he buries his face against my breast. His exhales burn through the fabric of my nightgown, caressing over my heated skin and a stray thought of his mouth there has my breasts feeling heavy, the peaks tight and aching. “But God in heaven I do not want to stop.”

I push myself into him, heady with the groan I receive and lost in pleasure as his hands slide beneath my nightgown, his palms scorching, soothing, and pleasing all at once, guiding me to a place I do not know and desperately wish to experience.

“You would make me wait longer than I already have, husband?” He laughs against my skin, lifting his head to smile up at me with swollen lips, flushed cheeks, and wide, darkened pupils. “I will not allow you to stop now, Peeta. You have denied me our wedding night for too long.”

I take his mouth with mine then, sliding my tongue past his lips, uncaring if he is shocked at my boldness. His moan vibrates across my tongue along with his taste as his arms tighten around me, holding us together as I writhe, seeking release for this pressure mounting in my core. A brief flicker of familiarity in the movement of our kiss seeps through the haze of desire and need, a calling out of a memory and a taste and scent that tickles the brain. It whispers of starry nights and exquisite kisses shared between red stained lips. 

No, not now.

I do not want the intrusion of a third party in my thoughts as I kiss Peeta. I stiffen in his embrace, but before I can break the kiss, there is a knock on the door and it opens.

“My apologies for the wait, Mrs. Mellark, I had a bit of a time finding it. Picked up Miss Primrose’s first then saw the fancy stitching and knew it couldn’t be yours,” Sae says as she enters and I leap from Peeta’s arms, hands frantically repairing my appearance as she takes note of our faces, the way we cannot look at one another and the way we shift clothes back in place to hide away kissed, flushed skin. “And my apologies for interrupting.”

Sae’s smile is as poorly disguised as our activities. She sets the sewing kit down on a chest near the door, curtsies, wishes us a good night, and leaves us in awkward silence. How humiliating, to be caught in the act of mauling my own husband. Undoubtedly the entire household will hear of this by dinner time tomorrow. The mere fact that Sae and others will know exactly what we are doing behind our doors now cools the ardour that so recently burned through me. Her knowledge saps my body of desire and replaces it with fatigue.

“I am...going to sleep now,” I say and move towards the bed. “In the morning, I will design a better sleeve and cushion for your leg.”

“As you wish, madame,” he says, his voice hoarse. I settle in the bed and he does not move.

“Would you cease being obstinate?” After a few moments of him moving about, tending to the fire, the room darkens. Then I feel the bed dip as he joins me.

“Satisfied, wife?”

“Perhaps a little, husband,” I mutter. 

He releases a sigh, sounding beleaguered as he moves and wraps his arms around me. “Better?”

I shift to find a more comfortable angle, my backside brushing against him as I do. He sucks in a sharp breath and I pause. Push back into him and grin at the feel of him still hard. His response to me tonight gives me courage to ask something I need the answer to.

“Do you desire me, Peeta?”

“You’ve no idea,” he whispers, holding me tight so that I might feel him and his kisses as they whisper over my neck, up into my hair as he inhales and then releases his breath in a tortured groan. “But you were right. In my efforts to avoid you and the temptation you present, I have exhausted myself. I would not last ten seconds before humiliating myself and disappointing you.”

“So you admit to avoiding me?”

“Please understand, it is not meant as an insult to you, Katniss,” he says. “I am...used to being unwanted. A bastard is never truly wanted. Neither is a cripple. I am both. Even when it seems I am close to earning acceptance, something always arises to remind people of what I am.”

I lay still then, contemplating his words for a moment. He says them with no trace of self pity or sadness but rather states them as a fact. “Has this anything to do with the letter from your family a few days ago?”

His body turns rigid against mine and I know I have struck upon the truth. “Amongst other things.”

“Bad news then?”

“In a manner of speaking. We are expected to present ourselves at Vale House at our earliest convenience,” he tells me in a sardonic tone.

“The Marquis cannot be bothered to attend our wedding but we are to answer his summons at the drop of a hat? Why did you not tell me?” I ask and Peeta turns me in his arms to face him, his hand caressing over my cheek.

“Your father and your family need you right now, Katniss. I would not ask you to leave them under such circumstances. Therefore, it is not our earliest convenience and the Marquis will have to wait. I have already told him so.”

“That does not change the way he has ordered us about!”

“I like it no more than you, but he has provided us with a generous income as a wedding gift—”

“A start! It does us no good if we mismanage it in the coming years.” Peeta lets go of my face and shifts uncomfortably in the bed.

“It would be one visit, Katniss. I would not enjoy it any more than you. One visit to bow and curtsy and pretend that we’re eternally grateful and then he would leave us alone.”

“How can you be certain? What is to prevent him from--”

“Read it,” he says, rolling away and lighting the lamp. He retrieves a letter from the drawer on his side of the bed, shoving a few scattered papers back in before handing me the letter. “He makes it quite clear he sees our marriage as a chance to be well rid of me, since my time in the infantry did not do the job.”

I snatch it up, eyes darting over the words. My skin crawls at the domineering tone and veiled insults -- at the implication that Peeta would never have managed to convince anyone to marry him anyways and so it is lucky that Sir Robert eloped, thus leaving me available to manipulate into a marriage with Peeta. The implications that I was not good enough for Robert, but Peeta is an acceptable substitute that I should be grateful for. I am not sure how he manages it, but the man simultaneously insinuates that neither of us are good enough for the other and also that we should both be grateful we were fortunate enough to find someone to marry us at all, all while congratulating himself for raising Peeta to the point that he no longer needs a father. The message is clear. Come visit and be grateful and then never bother me again.

“Who did Robert elope with anyways? The queen of Panem?” I say and at this, Peeta laughs.

“Not even close.”

“Well this pompous ass makes it sound like he did. At least tell me I was left for the daughter of a Duke, a minor princess.”

“No, the Marquis would have rejoiced in such a thing, not tried to hide it,” Peeta says and I wait for a real answer. He sighs and runs a hand through his hair. “You remember I told you that my mother worked for the Marchioness’ birth family?”

“Yes,” I say, impatient to hear the truth.

“That means that once I was living as a Mellark, I was invariably dragged back to that estate along with the rest of the family.”

“Why?” I ask, astonished that they would demand such a thing of Peeta. To be forced to return to a place so full of both happy and miserable memories for him must have been devastating.

“To prove that the Marquis is merciful and generous because he provided for his bastard? To control Lady Tabitha through humiliation? Remind me that I was forbidden to so much as speak of my birth mother anymore and why? Perhaps to remind me that with a snap of his fingers, I could be back in the kitchens or worse. Or to use me as a warning for everyone else in his circle of influence that he could do the same to them as he had done to my mother and I. Who knows how truly twisted that man’s cruelty is, for surely I do not. But that is not the point. The point is that...Robert was already used to visiting there and with my presence as his brother, there were now...new friends and playmates he was forbidden before. We were careful never to be caught of course.”

“His aunt then, or perhaps a cousin,” I guess and Peeta sighs.

“Were it that simple, although he did have a brief romance with one of his cousins. That was the trouble. Robert was always in love with someone, convinced that she was the only one for him. It was impossible to tell fondness from infatuation from real love where he was concerned. I think… in a way, he was desperately seeking the sort of love and affection he was denied as a child, always expected to act like a lord before he was even a man.”

I glance down at the pillows beneath us as guilt rises in me. At the callous and business like marriage I proposed to him. I was attempting to be honest and instead perhaps hurt him more than I had realised. No wonder Robert ran away with someone else. He knew that I did not love him even a little.

“I suppose he asked this unsuitable girl whom his father now wishes to hide to marry him at some point in the past?”

“She refused Robert’s proposal, insisted she could not bring him down so. It left them both broken hearted. The Marquis purchased my commission shortly after and I had no choice but to leave. At first, Robert’s letters to me showed his pain, but they gradually grew increasingly optimistic, and by the time I returned, Robert seemed to have recovered from the heartache. He was back to his old self, falling madly in love at every dance.

“Then he started courting you, and I thought… I thought there was no chance for him. How could he not develop a real love for you?” Peeta says it so tenderly that a strange sort of giddy feeling permeates my body, all the way to my fingers and toes. His belief that Robert would not be able to keep from falling in love with me suggests more about Peeta’s feelings for me than it does Robert’s, in this case. “But I knew of your family’s situation and the real possibility that it was Robert’s fortune, not himself, you were truly interested in. I thought to protect him from disappointment or from falling in love too fast by accompanying him on every outing, but in the end it did not matter. He was clearly not over his former love and ran off with her the night of the masquerade, although I’ve no knowledge yet of the details how exactly that came about. I am simply sorry that you were left hurt by it.”

“You still have not told me who she is, Peeta,” I say rather than confront the lingering feelings in my chest at the memories of those last few days in Capitol.

He takes a deep breath and releases it. “Delilah Cartwright...Delly.”

I stare at him, unblinking. He’s waiting for a reaction, and yet I’ve no idea how I should react. I search through feelings and attempt hurt. That no longer seems to fit. In truth, the only thing hurt by Robert’s elopement was my pride. My vanity. And perhaps my sense of control over my life. 

But… I did not love him, and I have no way of knowing if I would have come to love him. There is also the fact that it matters little if I would have. I am married to Peeta, and as much as I try, I cannot summon any regret over the outcome, despite my lingering misgivings about the methods.

I finally manage a shrug. “Is there a bargain price for family members on those excellent boots she makes?”

Peeta blinks twice and then his lips curl up in a fragile smile. Ridiculous the way my heart flutters at this small expression of hope on his visage.

“You are not angry?”

“I am perhaps...confused about a few details,” I say and then a massive yawn halts my next words. I am exhausted as well, apparently. “But you can remedy that in the morning. For now, you will hold me and you will see to your health or you will regret it. I have grown rather fond of you, husband.”

“Rather fond of me?” I nod and close my eyes, prepared to sleep.

“Yes and I am now used to having you about. You can be most helpful at times. I will be quite aggravated if you die on me due to your own stubborn neglect. Such an inconvenience. And you will not even think of doing something so ridiculous as sleeping in that chair, ever again.” I crack one eye open and catch him smiling down at me. “Unless you are drunk.” 

He laughs, extinguishes the light and wraps me up into his embrace. “I would not dare over indulge nor die prematurely for fear of your retribution, wife.”

“Good.” A smile stretches across my lips and I am grateful for the darkness, for surely my expression is quite feral in that moment. “Then rest with me. There is always tomorrow, husband.”


	15. Chapter 15

When I wake, I cling to the delicious sensation of happiness that seems to have taken root in my bones overnight. I am warm, so very warm and secure as I pry my eyes open in the early dawn. 

My comfort is swiftly replaced with other feelings as I take note of how I am sleeping, sprawled across Peeta’s chest in a most immodest pose. His left hand curls around my thigh, holding it in place draped over his stomach; his fingers given to the occasional twitch as he dreams. My foot brushes the bandages on the end of his leg. My shift has ridden up, up to my hips, leaving my spread legs bare and his right hand resting on the naked skin of my back, just above my rear. One of my hands has worked its way through the opening of his nightshirt and lays over solid muscle, rising and falling with each of his gentle breaths. My fingers curl without my bidding, digging my nails into his flesh. My sex is pressed against his hip and as I shift, intending to stretch and perhaps disentangle myself from his embrace, a soft stream of unmistakable pleasure courses through me.

Oh my. 

I do it again and release a shuddering breath, my eyes rolling back as I take note of how it feels, of the mounting pressure against my insides as I move, slow and uncertain and greedy in the morning, aching for more of this feeling. 

Unlike last night, this is a lazy desire, not one that demands appeasement this instant, but slowly unfolds from deep inside me, like petals opening and stretching to bask in the first rays of sunshine. This feeling inside me would rather linger in the luxury and laziness of a comfortable bed and a day just begun, time stretching at length before it, rather than race breakneck to the finish. Though it feels no less exquisite for its indolent nature.

I can hear the household stirring. It is only a matter of time before Mary enters to help me dress for the day, and Peeta yet sleeps. My cheeks burn with shame at my wanton behavior even as my body moves, seeking to deepen the sensations. I am taking advantage as he sleeps. We need to rise from bed now or Mary shall be the one interrupting us this time then no doubt hurrying to add to the servants’ gossip. I do not wish more interruptions, nor to cause even more gossip amongst the servants. What transpires here in our bed belongs to Peeta and I. No one else. 

So with a whimper, I tear myself free of our tangled embrace and slide up his frame. Unable to leave him completely, I press a kiss to his lips. He breathes in and when I rise just a little, his eyes open, hazy with the remnants of his dreams for a second until they focus on me.

“Good morning,” I whisper, blushing slightly at having been caught staring at him and kissing him in his sleep.

“Good morning,” he says, his voice rough and undeniably intimate. His fingers clench on my back and another unfolding, rolling swell rocks through me.

The pressure inside me responds, increasing slightly as I bite my lip. For a moment, I question my decision to deny myself this morning. The sound of servant’s laughter in the hall settles it for me.

“It is going to be a fine day,” I say and scramble from the bed to the window and stretch in the already warm breeze, the early morning bird song that drifts in through our open window.

“It appears so,” he says behind me and I turn to find him staring at me, his gaze intense, his body held up on one arm, the sheets twisted about him. The rising sunshine kisses his face and I envy it the touch.

Today, I decide. We will deny and delay no more. I will make sure of it.

A knock on the door announces Mary’s arrival and I am forced to cease staring at my husband as she assists me prepare for the day. After she has moved on to assist Prim, I do manage to make a rough pattern and take a few measurements for the sleeve I intend to make for Peeta’s leg. He cooperates and as I rise, finished with what I can do for now, he clasps his fingers around mine, bringing them to his lips to kiss, his gaze unwavering as he does so. My skin warms beneath the touch, an effect that dances up my arms, straight to my cheeks.

“Thank you, madame. For taking such care with me,” he murmurs and the warmth turns to heat that shoots straight down between my legs.

It is going to be an intolerably long day if he continues to speak to me or look at me in this manner.

He finishes dressing then, and for the first time since our wedding, escorts me down to breakfast. Madge’s eyes dart between us as we enter and Maysilee’s joy at seeing us is likely the only thing keeping her from questioning me on the spot. 

The day proceeds from there as any other, although I cannot shake the feelings that course through me, constant and unwavering, as powerful as any great river as I move through the morning tasks, always aware of his presence, of his gaze on me. I play with my hair and bite at my nails with mounting nerves, yet they are not the sort of nerves that frighten, rather the sort that excite. 

As promised, I sift through bits of fabric, examining them for thickness, softness, ease of stitching, stiffness, and most importantly itchiness and chafing. I narrow the possibilities to two different weaves of satin, a soft muslin, and one of a newer fabric called cotton. I set about fashioning them into sleeves for Peeta’s leg. He can try them all and decide which works best. 

After, I spend some time alone in the study, the only way I seem able to focus on my business tasks for the day. Peeta seems to understand, hiding himself away in another room instead to do the same as I, as though we both know that should we occupy the same room alone for any space of time, we will accomplish no work at all. As it is, I waste several precious moments indulging in lecherous fantasies of Peeta striding into the room, tossing me onto the desk, lifting my skirts, and then… kissing me senseless.

My experience -- or rather my lack thereof -- in such matters limits my imagination. It is frustrating beyond belief not to know what one is dreaming of, especially when such imaginings cause perspiration to sprout on my skin in the oddest places. I forcibly banish my imaginings and focus on my tasks. Why waste time in unsatisfactory and half formed dreaming when I can pursue the real thing? When I can experience the act fully with a flesh and blood man, warm and eager and --

Good heavens. I can’t even tell myself to stop dreaming about ripping his clothes off without ripping his clothes off in my mind. Clearly my soul needs more prayer.

When I am finished, I spend some time with Maysilee in the gardens. We read stories and she acts out a play for me. It is a joyous, carefree hour that leaves me with a strange, hollow ache in my belly as I hand a yawning Maysilee off to Madge.

“I doubt she shall be riding with Peeta and I today,” I say as Maysilee curls into her mother’s breast.

“Perhaps tomorrow,” Madge says, kissing her child and giving my hand a quick squeeze before heading upstairs. I watch them go, overcome with a fierce sense of protectiveness. They have become part of my family and I can scarce image Everdeen without them any more. I know that perhaps one day, Madge may seek out another marriage, one based in love, but for now they belong here.

And now it is also well past time for my daily ride with Peeta. 

When I hunt, there is a moment when the winds and the light falls just right. When I can see my quarry and the inevitable result before I loose my arrow. Such a moment gives rise to a prickling awareness, not quite a chill but a moment of anticipatory triumph. There is no hunt, no quarry, and no arrow today, yet as I pack a picnic lunch with Sae’s assistance, my body responds in much the same fashion. We have been avoiding one another, or perhaps avoiding temptation. I sigh at myself but do not attempt to control my imaginings. Perhaps my mind and my cravings will become more biddable once I have had a taste of these carnal delights. Tonight, I tell myself. We shall consummate our marriage and put an end to this waiting tonight. 

With the food secure in saddle bags, I seek him out. Finding Peeta near the front doors of the house, I rise on my toes and, resting my hands on his shoulders, kiss his cheek.

“Are you ready for our ride today? I thought we might stop at the lake,” I tell him. He seems at a loss for words for a moment.

“Yes, that would be lovely,” he finally pushes the words out in a rush, then offers his arm to me.

It is only as I am waiting for him to mount Cicero that I realise what I did, kissing him so casually like that. As though it is a normal aspect of our daily lives.

I am smiling as we ride out, and eager. Sagittaria can feel it, dancing beneath me and tossing her head as I look over my shoulder at Peeta. He gives me a questioning look. I laugh before urging my horse forward. 

The wind as we ride is invigorating, and when I once more look back to see if Peeta follows, I laugh again. He is keeping pace, clods of dirt flying up in the wake of our horses’ hooves. Cicero follows Sagittaria’s flowing tail, intent on keeping pace with her. My heart thrums with joy as we move at a brisk pace over the hills, through so many scents that are familiar and that I love, that I associate with my home.

Finally, we reach the lake and allow both our mounts to walk and cool off. Peeta brings Cicero alongside me then. It is a quiet moment, surrounded by the sounds and bounty of nature, embraced with the soft green glow of sunlight through the countless leaves of the trees. 

I sigh happily as we settle on our blanket and enjoy our picnic. Afterwards, Peeta draws in his sketchbook and I gather a few plants for him to illustrate. Gradually, I move closer to the water’s edge and then something catches my eye. I make a noise of delight and uproot a handful to take to Peeta. I blush as I spread them on the blanket.

“And what are these?” Peeta asks, setting aside his sketchbook to examine the long arrow shaped leaves and the blue tubers, only partially formed and not yet ready to eat. Peeta delicately touches the flowers as to not damage the specimen.

“Sagittaria sagittifolia...commonly called duck potato or sometimes...katniss.”

Peeta looks up at me then and my blush intensifies. “The roots are edible, not right now, but they ripen twice a year. Once in spring and again in autumn. They are quite good, actually. My father used to say that as long as I could find myself, I would never starve.”

“Such beautiful words of wisdom,” Peeta says and I nod. And yet, as I do so, I am struck with a powerful melancholy and glance away, fighting sudden tears. My eyes and throat burn with holding them back. I feel Peeta’s fingers on me, tracing over my cheek and lifting my chin so that I may look him in the eyes again. 

“He is not gone yet, Katniss.”

“It feels as though he is,” I say and cover my mouth to contain the sob bursting free. So long I’ve held this in, I can no longer control it. 

In seconds, I find myself curled in Peeta’s lap, crying. This is not at all how I had planned the day to go. I despise crying in front of anyone, but the tender way Peeta holds me almost invites the tears. His arms are a safe haven to unleash the fears and hurts I must hide away from everyone else in my life. His quiet words and the brush of his fingers on my cheeks, my hair, the steady way he cradles my body against his all incite and welcome the unleashing of my feelings, all while protecting my heart from the storm.

He holds me as I cry, until my tears are spent. Then he continues to hold me. I think I may sleep in his arms for a few minutes, until we hear a distant rumble of thunder. In my drowsy state, I have the most ridiculous thought that perhaps my outburst summoned the storm, but I know that the tears have been raging inside me for some time now, and I do not control the weather.

“We should return,” Peeta says and, with a lingering kiss to my brow, shifts me in his arms. “Before we are caught in the weather.” 

He carries me to Sagittaria, setting me on her back and then packing up our picnic. The thunder grows closer as he mounts Cicero and we ride back towards home. The sky has grown dark and the first fat drops are just beginning to fall as we ride into the stables. They appear to be empty of human life, save for the two of us, the horses tucked in their stalls, warm blankets secured over their backs, the windows shut to keep the rain out of the stalls, but the doors left open to admit the cooling breeze and the fresh scent of the rain. It meanders down the aisle. 

Peeta dismounts first, pausing only to praise Cicero before helping me down as well. It is an intimate act, helping a lady from her saddle. There is no avoiding him placing his hands on me, no avoiding the closeness of our bodies. Peeta sets me on my feet and holds on to me as I regain my footing. His eyes caress over my face, settling on my eyes and he opens his mouth to speak. Sagittaria prances, her body side stepping into my back. I fall against Peeta’s chest, hands splayed across the wool of his coat. 

Words do not issue forth from his mouth, only a small strangled noise I cannot decipher. I imagine the roughness of his coat I cannot feel through my gloves as I stare up at him. I feel almost as though I am watching it happen rather than participating as I lift one hand to his face, to trace the scars from where they graze his eye up beneath his hat. The motion knocks the thing to the stable floor and neither of us moves to retrieve it.

Peeta stands still for my silent examination of his scars, down to his jaw. I slip one finger beneath his high collar and stop. There are so many barriers between me and further exploration, further caressing and...kissing.

I can scarcely breathe, the air heavy in my throat. Outside, the rain has begun in earnest, crackling on the cobblestones and pounding on the stable roof. My breaths come fast and sharp, frantic against the constriction of my stays. I’ve managed to find my balance, leaning into him, but cannot seem to catch my breath.

Just as I am certain that this is it, that he is going to kiss me and all of my waiting and wanting will finally come to an end, Cicero snorts and Sagittaria paws at the the stable floor. Peeta’s eyes close, shuttering away the deep blue. I catch one quick flash of his teeth in a wry smile and then he releases me. I sway for one second, but turn towards my horse as does he. We cannot tear into one another and leave our mounts untended.

Ignoring my disappointment, I lead Sagittaria to her stall and remove her saddle. Peeta does the same with Cicero in the stall next door. Seeing to our horses is quiet work as the rain settles into a calm, gentle lull. It falls in sheets, a peaceful song and the sound of our brushes fall into rhythm with it. The occasional rumble of distant thunder necessitates the soothing of horse and I sing a little. The fragrance of fresh cut hay and herbs hung to dry dances on the cool breeze, freshens with the scent of the rain washing the earth clean, nourishing the soil.

A content warmth washes over me with each stroke of the brush and a secret smile plays over my lips as I steal a glance over the wall between the two stalls. The fabric of Peeta’s coat stretches and folds with each of his movements. His blonde hair gleams in the lamplight.

When I am finished, I check that Sagittaria has fresh hay to eat and water to drink, then I step out into the aisle just as Peeta is securing the door to Cicero’s stall.

“Here,” he says and moves to assist me with Sagittaria’s. Our arms brush as we work and when we are done, he smiles at me. I wonder if he feels it. Surely he must feel it, too. This spark and the tingle so like that caused right before lightning strikes, whenever he is near me. The hypnotic calm as we lean towards one another. “Thank you.”

“For what?” I breathe out the question and he nods towards the open door.

“For a lovely day spent in your company.”

“It is raining,” I say. “Most would not call that a lovely day.”

“It is if it is spent with you,” he whispers. My body burns as the rain increases once more, into a torrent outside that will make racing to the house a madness, impractical. We will simply have to wait out the storm right here, alone in the stables. My breathing becomes labored.

I feel fevered and parched and I cannot seem to stop staring at his lips, nor can I stop myself from leaning into the cradle of his palm against my cheek as he touches me. Thoughts of the bedroom wander into the stable, out of the dark shadows of slumber and into the cool silver of rain clouds and thunder, the warmth of golden fire in the lamps. Prudence suggests that this is not the ideal place, nor situation, and yet my thoughts wander there despite my better judgement.

Eyes still on mine, Peeta lowers his head and I am an observer no more as his lips caress over mine. A soft, desperate sound rises up into the steamy air, surrounding us as his arms surround me, tighter as I press myself to him.

Desire wins over prudence as I kiss him. His hand curls into my hair and holds me close, unable to run or retreat, although I do not exactly try to. Quite the opposite in fact.

Our lips part, and neither of us moves away. I draw air into my lungs in sharp inhales, cling to the lapels on his coat as we stand suspended, each searching the eyes of the other, seeking answers to questions we dare not voice. His thumb caresses over my cheek. Peeta finds his courage or perhaps his voice first, and he whispers to me, his words a warm caress of air over my lips.

“More than anything, I wish to continue kissing you. But I will not, unless you tell me you wish it as ardently as I.”

I make a strangled noise as I nod, unable to find the words. Even if I could, I doubt that I could find the air to voice them. His lips brush mine once, so soft and gentle. He watches me for a moment, his mouth curling up on one side in a smile. I cannot even manage one word. They fail me, and so I answer him with action, joining our mouths again.

For one heady moment, all smiles are lost to kisses. So many waking and sleeping hours have I devoted my thoughts to our kisses. One in the bright sunlight of a church, simple and over faster than the flight of a bee, yet sweet as nectar -- a promise for a bountiful future. One in haste and a desire to know more, shrouded in the darkness and heavy yeasty scents of the kitchens and cut short by his doubts. The passion of our kisses last night, so long restrained and nearly explosive in their release, born of frustration and almost an anger of denial and fear of loss, laced with the pungence of herbal medicines and the warm wood smoke of a calming evening fire. But this kiss has no claims to any of that. 

We are both foul with dirt and sweat, smelling of horse and damp wool from the drops that caught us before reaching the stable. Save for that brief moment after dismounting, there were no loving touches or longing gazes as we rode and cared for our horses, those were acts of everyday life with no frills or embellishments. In a way, I grieved for my father on the lake shore but now life -- its very essence -- seems to course through me, pulsing heady and demanding with every pounding beat of my heart. This kiss is born of banality and yet… I feel something different in these kisses -- inspired by the nature of his kindness, by our simplistic touches of one another as we move through our daily routines, the wildness of the storm as it rages outside and the comfort of his arms as they provide refuge from the world. This kiss tastes of a lifetime of possibilities and I am desperate to devour every last morsel.

A deep moan rumbles in his chest and I surface from the depths of rapture long enough to note that I am pinned to the support between two horse stalls, my arms wound tightly around his neck. His hands pull on my skirt. I am seized by a strange, wanton need and I lift one leg to twine about his hips. He moves my skirts out of the way and caresses my calf. I can feel pressure but no warmth with his hand encased in his glove, my calf encased in boot leather and stockings beneath. And yet my heart pounds and my skin where I feel the pressure of his touch near burns, causes shivers and a flurry of sensation. And then his gloved hand travels higher, to places usually hidden beneath layer upon layer of fabric. Up to my thigh, hitching it higher and holding it more securely about him, naked to the elements. 

Oh sweet heavenly sin. 

The contrast is unbearable. The soft rub of glove leather, the scratch of wool — his coat— rubbing over my thighs. Both are foreign sensations and coupled with the more familiar feel of the fabric his trousers are cut from in a place a where a man’s trousers have never dared to be before… it all drives me fair mad with need for more. 

I return his moans to him as he continues to kiss me, praying that he understands what I need for I’ve no idea what to do next. I nearly cry in relief as he lifts me so that I might wrap both legs about him and I know that this is exactly what I need. His body presses into mine, his sturdy frame holding me secure as he arranges my skirts, pulled up and back so my stockinged and booted legs grasp him tightly and the air kisses my thighs as he kisses me. The world ruptures in my mind, split in the chasm between heat and cold. 

The afternoon air is rapidly cooling without the sun to bake it, with the rain relieving the sweltering heat. The cool, damp breeze slithers over my legs, forbidden and delicious as the air chills my fevered, perspiring skin. His body pressed to mine, the air we breathe… our kisses… all heats me to delicious, unbearable heights. I gasp as his head rears back with a choked, desperate sound leaving his lips.

“We should stop.”

“No. Peeta. Please do not stop,” I hear myself beg, though the reedy, pleading tone is not one I am familiar with in my voice.

Peeta chuckles softly and brings one hand up to caress my cheek, my lips. “You’ve no idea how happy I am to hear those words from you. But I do not want our first time together be a hasty fumble in the stable where anyone might happen upon us.”

“Who would wander out here in this weather?” I ask with anger in my tone. Frustration and embarrassment burns through me, and my body screams at the repeated denial of knowledge right as we are on the precipice. I shift to escape him and instead, find myself pushed harder into the support behind me. His head drops to my shoulder and he groans as I struggle. I can feel him again. Between my thighs, drawn to my sex, it seems, a hard ridge radiating heat through layers of fabric. 

“Peeta,” I whisper. His shoulders rise with a deep breath that he expels in a shuddering wave of air. It tickles over my neck, igniting the embers of need deep inside me.

“Dear God. Please stop moving, Katniss,” he groans and I shudder, unable to stop the movement of my hips that feels natural, ancient, and heavenly. Peeta’s next words come out his mouth not at all gently. “I am trying to be a gentleman here.”

“And what if I do not want you to be a gentleman?” I snap and then both of us pause. His head lifts and he stares into my eyes as I hold myself still. My thighs burn with the effort of not moving, of not exploring the delicious friction caused by our movements and its effects on my body. “What if I want this, Peeta?”

My fingers twist the hair on the back of his head, round and round as his eyes flutter shut and he leans towards me. The old doubts from our wedding night and scattered other nights spent alone in our bed resurface.

“Unless...you do not want to bed me?” I whisper. 

A soft curse passes his lips and then he is kissing me again. Desperate and wild with his fingers biting into my thighs as he guides my hips, my body in moving over him. I sigh against his tongue in relief. When he lifts his head again, I cry out then gasp in delight as he moves to kiss up and down my jaw and words growl from his throat in between.

“I am crazed with want for you, Katniss. Every night beside you is a sweet torment, knowing you are right there and yet not within my reach. The depraved thoughts I have of you would no doubt terrify you, but God help me, I cannot seem to control my own mind around you.”

“Don’t stop,” I beg again as the sensation builds in me, like a coiled rope pulling taut, bringing all focus to a single point inside me.

“Please do not tease me, my love,” he murmurs and sucks on a patch of skin that draws a stunned cry from me. “If you truly want this, say it now and wrap your legs around me tight.”

I do not want to stop either. I do not want to stop until I discover the end of this coiled rope inside me, and so I do as he asks and tighten the grip my legs and arms have on him. “Yes. Please.”

He pushes us away from the support and walks us down the stable aisle, my body clinging to his like a creeping vine, to the stall where we keep clean, fresh cut hay.

I turn my head to kiss above his collar, along his jaw, wherever his clothing permits me to reach. I capitulate to the desire to inhale his scent, to nuzzle and to taste warm, delicious skin. My eyes widen, even as I kiss him, at the strange motions. I watch his hands, pressed firmly to the walls on either side of us as he uses them to slowly lower us down. His hands walk down the walls until I am laid out on the hay and now it is his hips that move, pressing down into me and eliciting those same delicious feelings. I moan, rather loudly, grateful for the rain’s disguise of our actions.

“Katniss,” Peeta murmurs as he kisses my ear, nibbling on it in a way that makes me gasp and wriggle beneath him. He rises slightly then and I reach for him to bring him back until I realise he has left me to remove his coat. “I believe that this usually comes after the courtship, not during.”

I laugh at his words and unbutton his waist coat for him. “Have you forgotten that we are already married, husband?”

“As impossible to forget as it is to believe.” He flings aside his coat and waistcoat.

“You can still court me. In fact, I expect flowers and poetry tomorrow.” I tease him and rest my hands on his abdomen as he tears at his cravat, adding that to the growing pile of his garments on the stable floor.

“Damn. I was never good at verse,” he mutters and I laugh again, feeling giddy and lighthearted. 

“I find  _ that  _ hard to believe.”

“What if I draw something, just for you?” He asks as he returns to me, holding himself above me with both arms.

“I might accept that.” He uses his teeth to remove his gloves one at a time, leaving a single arm to hold himself suspended over me. “Your valet would be appalled by your treatment of your garments, sir.”

“Lucky I do not have one then,” he says with a smile. I remove my own gloves as he unbuttons my coat, one small knob at a time, kissing over the skin revealed beneath as he goes. He lavishes my neck and the forward curve of shoulders with soft kisses and whisper soft words as I sigh and relax beneath him.

The coil inside me has loosened, but I somehow trust him to show me the end. For now, I am content to let him leisurely loosen my clothes, shift my body in the hay to gain a better angle. My eyes drift shut as I listen to the rain and his lips wander along the top edge of my bodice. His tongue dips below fabric in a quick swipe that draws a sharp gasp from me. His eyes jump up to mine. I grab hold of his hair and massage the back of his scalp. I need not even tell him to continue, my hand in his hair does not allow him to stop.

His hand skims up my ribs, up to beneath my breast. Then up further until one breast surges free of my clothing and Peeta lowers his head to it. He traces his nose around my areola and then...oh god then his tongue. I cling to blonde curls and am unable to watch, overwhelmed with the sensations of wet flesh to puckered skin.

A flash of lighting streaks across the sky, covering the sound I make when he sucks my nipple into his hot mouth. Just when I think I can take no more, his weight rolls over me and his body drifts lower. Lower until my fingers slip from his tresses. Peeta’s hands caress over my legs, push my skirts up even further, up to my waist and revealing me to him. The scent of hay and a deeper tang fills my nostrils.

I find myself squeezing my eyes tight, bracing for his disappointment in me or for the pain of which I have heard so many rumors. Instead, I feel the soft fluttering of his lips over my knee, then slowly rising up my leg. Up and up as I begin to tremble in withheld need. I do not know what I need, only that Peeta can give it to me.

“Beautiful,” he murmurs. He grasps my skirts then and brings them back down, covering his head and my legs just as the first wet touch caresses over my intimate skin. My eyes fly open in shock and my palms slap into the walls on either side of me.

“What are you doing, husband?” I ask, my voice stammering as heat pours through me, the way melted chocolate pours over a fountain. I can see the shift of his head beneath my skirts. Feel his hair tickling my inner thighs, his hands holding and caressing me in turns, the velvet softness of his tongue and lips in places that shock me. I know what he is doing, the stories whispered in the scullery still vivid in my mind. My dream taunting me. Yet I had not fully believed the level of pleasure they described to be possible. Peeta’s tongue on me proves me wrong as my head tips back and I am lost to the sensations. “Oh…  _ Oh! _ ”

“That,” he murmurs then kisses me again in such a wicked way that makes me squeal and bite my lip to stifle the noise. “That is what I am doing, wife.”

What if the rain should stop and someone should discover us? I want to ask. What am I to do with my hands? Scratching at the stable walls as I am doing now seems so impersonal and distant given the intimacy of how Peeta is currently kissing me. Peeta’s touch shifts on me and finds a center of absolute delight before I can answer my own questions. 

“Oh my— oh!  _ Peeta _ ,” I twist and moan, seeking more of the tight coil, seeking the secret to springing it free. The sounds I make impossible to stifle. Damn any wandering souls this evening. They should not be about in such a storm anyways. We are married and have been for over a month, closer to two months now. Surely this is acceptable between husband and wife. 

He shifts and the pleasure recedes marginally. “No! Go back!”

Peeta ceases movement for a moment and then resumes, moaning against me as I voice my approval. Could he possibly be enjoying this as well? I cannot see how but have no chance to reflect on the matter. His mouth has turned most wicked, insistent as he devours me and I surrender. 

“Ooh!” I moan again, louder this time, commensurate with the pleasure pulling me under a haze of need. God it feels so good, so impossibly good that surely this must be a sin, I think for a brief moment, but I cannot seem to care as my body takes control. 

My mind, uncertain what to do with the pleasure taking root in my blood and spreading with every lick of his tongue on me, capitulates control with enthusiasm. It begins in my hips, rolling and undulating, the way our grains do in a gentle wind, meeting his mouth on each rise. My body writhing and flashing hot with each stroke of his lips or burst of lighting outside until I cannot distinguish the effects of the storm from the effects of his mouth on me. 

Pleasure licks at me and perspiration beads on my skin. I can feel it between my clothing and body, turning my thighs slick and doing nothing to cool the need burning inside me. If I am unbearably hot then I imagine that he must be as well, trapped thus beneath my skirts. My legs feel as though they are trapped in an oven. How can he possibly see what he is doing down there? I grab my skirt and wrench it up my legs, gathering it in folds at my waist until his head reappears, his hair damp and in disarray, his face flushed, scars pale and standing out in relief next to the darkening pink of his skin. His blue eyes wildly dark and seductive as he lifts his gaze to mine and his mouth feasts on me. The cool air hits my bare legs, a stark contrast to the heat in my blood, the heat that throbs where he kisses. 

“Peeta, I don’t — I can’t — Oh I do not know what I am doing.” I gasp for air, unable to utter another word as he lifts his head, his lips glistening and wet, the sound of him releasing me loud in the quiet stable.

“Are you enjoying this?”

I laugh, a few short, crazed notes as he lifts one eyebrow at me. “Is it not obvious?”

“I only mean that… I can hope that I am doing this correctly, or you could tell me…” he trails off and I see a flicker of uncertainty in his eyes. “Do you wish me to continue?”

“Yes!” I blush at the grin that spreads across his face at my adamant answer. “That is...I suppose you may continue, husband… If you wish to.”

“As you command, my pearl,” he murmurs and lowers his head again. He kisses me once, softly and I squirm. His eyes hold mine captive then. “I suppose you should relax and enjoy it as much as you can.” His whispered words caress over places I should not speak of but that ache in a desperation to feel his lips again. 

He grasps my wrists and moves my hands, one to his head. On instinct, I slide my fingers through his curls and grip, pulling him deeper into the folds between my legs. The other he moves to palm my own breast. The same instinct has my fingers closing around the mound and my eyes fluttering as pleasure from multiple points surges through me. He moans again, the feel of it undeniable and inescapable. 

I watch him resume pleasuring me, my entire body in motion as the coil once more draws taut, slowly at first. I lose track of time, certain he must be bored and frustrated. Except that the only thing shining in his blue eyes as they remain locked on me is determination and desire. His hands caress my legs then cup my buttocks and angle my hips differently. I feel his tongue sliding inside me, exploring and pleasing and oh good lord, I will shock the priest into an early grave at my next confessional.

Peeta hums against me and shifts his attentions higher, back to that center of delight that so thrilled me earlier. The coil tightens exponentially then, so taut that my legs shudder and my feet ache in my boots. Choked sounds fill the air as an intense suction on my flesh sends me soaring and floating, suspended for a moment. And then a wavering song as the coil breaks, snapping my spine into an immovable arch. I push into his mouth, pull him closer by his hair, singing out strange, exotic notes. My hand releases my breast and shoots out to the wall over my head, my ribs pressed tight to my corset and screaming with me for relief from the crashing thunder rolling through me in infinite waves. It does not seem to cease, cresting again and again as I cry out, his name a flash of heat on my tongue as I thrash in the hay, disturbing so many scents and sensations deep inside me.

When my body releases me from the storm, I go limp, sinking into the hay and panting. My entire body aches, throbbing with the pulse of my thundering heart. I can feel it at the apex of my thighs, the pounding of pulse and quivering of flesh. My legs lay limp and heavy, sinking into my spread skirt and the hay beneath. Another crazed laugh escapes me and I shake my head, covering my face so that my smile does not spilt my cheeks in two.

“Laughter? I am not certain that is a good reaction,” Peeta says and I lower my hands to gaze down at him. He attempts to arrange my skirts and I shake my head.

“This time it is. It is the laughter of relief.” He gives me a shy smile, so sweet and warm that I motion for him to come closer. He moves to hover over my body, his weight delicious on top of me and I cannot help but wonder what other delights await us in our bed. He hesitates and I place my hands on his cheeks, bringing him down to kiss me.

He tastes different this time and I startle. He apologizes for it and I shake my head before kissing him again. I cannot seem to stop, now that I have begun. Within moments, the need resurges, stronger and more pressing. I let my hands caress down his chest, down to his waist that I may pull his shirt free. He does not stop me, does not halt the wandering of my touch beneath his shirt, over his abdomen and torso. I cannot see, but I can feel. Everything. His skin as hot as mine, damp with perspiration and yet there’s a hardness beneath. Some areas spasm as I touch them, and I am suddenly eager to reach our bed so that I might explore more thoroughly. Soft, muffled sounds vibrate between our joined mouths, combining with the sounds of rain beating down on the roof, pattering on the stones in the courtyard, the soft whicker of horses in their stalls.

It is still not enough. I change the direction of my hands, towards the fastenings on his trousers. At the first button released, Peeta snatches one of my hands away and lifts his head.

“Katniss please. I am dangling with very little control left.” I bite my lip and stare up at him. 

“Peeta,” I whisper, flexing my fingers in his grip and shaking with need. “I wish to finish what we have started.”

He stares at me, questions in his eyes. “I cannot promise it will be enjoyable for you if we do this here and now.”

“So far, I would say it is enormously enjoyable,” I say and shift to kiss his ear as he did mine earlier. He thrusts into me and groans. “I am not fond of begging, Peeta.”

I barely whisper to him, but it is enough. He releases my hand and works with me to free his shaft. Peeta lifts my legs one at a time and whispers to me to wrap them around him. I do so, hooking my booted feet over his buttocks and holding his shoulders as he shifts. I feel warmth between my legs, then a hardness sliding between my folds, parting them as they stretch and ache for more. I undulate my hips, attempting to find more of this feeling.

“I am trying to be gentle here. I do not wish to hurt you,” Peeta groans, “But heaven above, do you feel good.”

“I am not so fragile, Peeta,” I say. My impatience wins and I leverage my hips up to take all of him. I cry out at the sudden burn and flash of pain, tears pricking my eyes. Peeta pushes on my hip, attempts to separate us. I feel momentarily betrayed, yet tighten the hold my arms and legs have on him, so that he cannot leave me.

So they were right then, all those whispers about the wedding night not being so pleasant for me. This is what they referred to then. 

Peeta kisses over my face, murmuring apologies and begging me to let him get up, to end this now. I shake my head. We have come this far, and there is a part of me that knows perhaps this will not be raptures and pleasure for me, but what he did just moments ago with his mouth was. A partnership sees to the needs of both, and now that he is sunk deep inside me, I can feel so much. It is a tight fit, perhaps a little uncomfortable, but not entirely unpleasant. I can feel a faint throbbing in him, pushing against me as though in desperation. It is a desperation I can recognize now in a primitive sense, a need for the release. He has given me such pleasure today that I cannot deny him the same.

“Please let me go,” he whispers, still kissing me, covering my skin with apologies and regret, down my neck to a stretch of sensitive flesh where he nuzzles and kisses and awakens my body. “I can still stop. I do not want to hurt you.”

“Oh,” I arch slightly beneath him and he groans. His words offer reprieve, but the kisses he leaves on my skin...they delight, leave me whimpering and clinging to his shoulders. And slowly, the pain fades away, to mere memory as rising need replaces it.

“That is not helping, my love. Please hold still and release me.”

“No, don’t leave me,” I say, and recalling the motions of last night that seemed to inflame us both, I move my hips beneath him. He swears and makes one more desperate attempt to disentangle us, but the feel of him inside me incites more of the pleasant tremors through my body. “Oh, would you leave me wanting now, husband?”

The words come out raspy and desperate. Peeta ceases his movements and watches me as I writhe beneath him.

“You are not hurt?”

“Not anymore,” I say and moan as he twists his hips, his motions stirring me to greater pleasure. “Yes!”

He releases a quick plea for my forgiveness and tilts our bodies, arranges us so that most of his weight rests on his uninjured leg and our hips lay at an angle to the ground. Then he moves in earnest. Our bodies meet and slide together. Again and again in a rapidly increasing rhythm. While it does not feel as heavenly as his mouth did, it is still astonishing. 

I sing out with each increase in my pleasure. The involuntary sounds I make, while I wish to hide them away, seem to reassure him and encourage him, and so I let them fly free. Peeta showers kisses and words of love over my neck and my face, pausing only to gaze down at me, his eyes fathomless pools. Beautiful. 

I am floating near to the sky, delicious heat filling me once more. Peeta murmurs an apology again and his mouth goes slack. His body bucks against mine several times as a dark flush covers his face and a deep, satisfied moan rumbles from his chest. 

He falls still then, panting desperately against my ear as I smile and caress my fingers through his hair. My body remains eager for release, but I am content to lay like this for now. There is an intimacy in the weight of him on me, pressing my mostly sated body into the hay, into the musky, new scents that seem to hover about us as we remain joined together.

We lay together, our bodies cooling and pulses calming as the rain slows to a gentle pace. Peeta lifts his head and murmurs to me, caressing back my hair as he kisses over my face and apologizes for what he deems his lack of stamina, whispering promises to see to my needs tonight in the comfort of our bed, if I want him to.

I tell him that I do want him to, because I do. We continue to kiss as the rain persists, whispering to each other and barely moving. When the rains finally cease, Peeta stands and assists me to my feet. We repair our appearance and I wrinkle my nose at the strange feelings between my legs. I see now why this is an activity best left to the bedroom, yet cannot quite regret what we shared today. 

I am overcome with the need to relieve myself and, mentioning it Peeta, we deal with that first. My steps as we walk towards the house after are awkward, as I am sore in places heretofore untouched. It is a satisfying ache, however, and I do not let go of Peeta’s ungloved hand. I relish the feel of his skin so twined with mine.

The evening has turned lovely, the rain clouds streaked with purple in the distance and the opposite end of the sky turned brilliant hues of orange and pink as the sun descends.

“Mrs. Mellark! Mr. Mellark!” Horatio shouts as we approach the house. He races out to meet us. “There you are! I’ve been looking for you everywhere! The whole house is in chaos!”

“What is it, Horatio?” I ask and he grins at me.

“It’s Mr. Everdeen, ma’am. He’s awake!”

I stare at the lad, uncomprehending as he motions for us to move, urges us to do so with his words. My feet and my brain finally catch on and I take two running steps. My hand is torn from Peeta’s then. I spin to face him. 

“Go,” he says. “Go on, Katniss. Run.”

I smile then, the flickerings of joy awakened as I race up the stairs after Horatio, skirts gathered in my fists. Through the house I tear, eager to reach him. The door is open and I hear happy laughter. I come to a screeching halt just inside the door and stare at the scene before me.

He is sitting up, propped on a mountain of pillows, his face gaunt but his eyes open and clear, a joyous smile on his face. My mother and sister and even Madge are piled on the bed, eagerly speaking and laughing tearfully, embracing him until he turns his head and sees me.

“Firecracker,” he says.

“Papa!” I answer and I burst into tears, running and throwing myself onto the bed, into his arms. He laughs and embraces me with one arm. 

“My girls. Oh my girls, it is alright,” he murmurs as I cry into his shirt. I lose track of hands and arms as we all embrace and speak over one another. It is utter, joyful chaos, and I feel as though my heart may burst in my chest from so much happiness.

“Katniss, my girl. You have hay in your hair!” Father announces with a laugh as I feel a tug on the strands and my heart leaps into my throat. The joy suddenly drained and replaced with embarrassment. “Have you been napping in the stables? You have not done that since you were a little girl.”

I manage to look up at him and the piece of hay he now holds between his fingers. My cheeks burn as the room falls silent save for Madge stifling a laugh. I have no idea where to even begin, nor what my mother and the others have told him.

“Don’t be ridiculous, man. Get inside this instant,” I hear Doctor Aurelius and am only somewhat grateful for his arrival as it distracts my father. The only problem is that he ushers Peeto into the room before him.

“Doctor! It is good to see you!”

“And you, awake at last Mr. Everdeen,” the doctor answers as he enters the room. “You gave us quite a fright.”

“Perhaps, but you have taken the idea of doctors receiving payment in flesh a bit literally,” My father lifts his truncated arm, although there is still some jocularity in his eyes.

“Would you rather pay that price or make this lovely group all widows and mourners?”

“I would hate to make them so,” my father answers, turning to Mother and kissing her soundly on the lips.

“Kent!” she breathes when he releases her, but I can see the blush on her face and the desire in her eyes. A confusing mixture of emotions begins to stir in me as I glance over and see Peeta hovering near the door.

“They are too beautiful for such sadness,” my father says and smiles at the doctor. “Thank you, Doctor. For taking such good care of me.”

“Well I did not manage it all alone. You had several excellent caretakers.”

“Indeed.” It is then that Father seems to notice Peeta. “And this young man? Your apprentice? I assume I owe him thanks as well. You seem familiar sir, though I do not recall your name. Is my memory affected, doctor?”

“I think not. He is not my apprentice, although I did attempt to convince him to attend medical school,” the doctor says as he approaches the bed to examine my father. This is news and I sit up a little more stiffly as Peeta’s eyes meet mine and he shakes his head slightly. “Unfortunately, he has been otherwise occupied and I doubt that I could convince his wife to let him go just yet.”

The doctor looks at me meaningfully and I blush. 

“We hadn’t gotten that far yet, doctor,” my mother speaks up then.

“That far?” my father asks and Peeta takes a deep breath, stepping forward to introduce himself. Several voices overlap then.

“I apologise that you are finding out this way, Mr. Everdeen.”

“Katniss was only trying to protect us all.”

“It is happy news, Kent.”

“My name is Peeta Mellark and--”

“Mellark?” My father’s eyes narrow then. “As in…”

“Reginald’s son, dear,” my mother says in a soothing voice. “But he is--”

“And what are you doing in these parts, Mr. Mellark?”

“We were not sure if you would return to us, Papa,” Primrose speaks up.

“Your daughter--” Peeta begins

“What of my girls? What have you done to them?” 

Oh this is not going at all well, I think and stand from the bed to sudden silence.

“Peeta is my husband,” I say and take his hand in mine. 

The silence stretches as my father looks between our faces, our joined hands, and my hair, the piece of hay in his hand. Humiliation burns on my face as I know, I just know that Father has figured out exactly what I was doing in the stables. What was a blissful sharing of passion just moments ago now scorches me with shame. Here my father was rousing finally from his coma and I was cavorting like a strumpet in the stables with a man. It matters not that we are married, I am ashamed at my own reckless behaviour under my father’s examination and suddenly fear for Peeta’s well being, when Doctor Aurelius speaks up.

“Now that the introductions are dealt with, Kent I would like to inform you that your son-in-law here has a false leg. Amputated just over a year ago, did you say?” He turns to Peeta for confirmation and receives a nod. “Mr. Mellark’s assistance was vital to the success of your own amputation and current good health.”

“Was it?” My father asks and spins the piece of hay between his fingers. 

“Yes it was, and I am certain that his experience in such matters will be an asset in your adjustment now that you have chosen to return to us.”

“Indeed,” Father says quietly. His grey eyes remain fixed on Peeta and he motions between us. “And how exactly did this happen?”

“Perhaps we should save that story for tomorrow,” my mother suggests. “You need to rest, Kent.”

“I have had moths of rest, my dear. I wish to know the nature of this union.”

Several voices rise up to explain and my father lifts his hand, demanding silence.

“I fall unconscious and our daughter is not even a little interested in matrimony. I awake only months later and she is married? For how long?” He shifts in the bed to stare at Mother and she seems to flounder for words.

“We are married nearly two months now,” I say and he spins back to face me.

“That is not much time to have met and courted before you were wed. Was it your choice to do so? He did not manipulate you? Coerce you or take advantage of you?”

“No!” I practically shout and everyone stares at me. Madge’s eyes wide and astonished at the not quite a lie yet not quite a truth that I bellow. She and Peeta are the only ones present who know the whole truth of it, although Mother knows some of it and Prim a little. I lean on that as I move closer to Peeta. “No, he didn’t. I…”

And I cannot finish as the words jam together in my throat. Oh dear God above, I was about to announce to the entire room the worst sort of lie. I was about to say that I love him. I cannot love him. It is much too soon for that. It must be the remnants of our intercourse speaking. Yes, that must be it. Is Father Crane not always preaching the importance of knowing lust from love? Desires of the flesh from true affections? I care for Peeta, but love? I must have them all muddled in my brain and have no time now to sort through all these thoughts.

“Everyone,” my father says in even tones. “I wish a moment with Katniss, if you please.”

The group quickly disbands, my mother giving him another quick kiss on his cheek as she ushers Primrose from the room. I squeeze Peeta’s hand and try to tell him with my eyes that everything will be alright. He leaves reluctantly, with Doctor Aurelius, the last to depart the room after finishing his examination and giving my father instructions for gradually increasing his diet and exercise, slowly bringing his body back to the world of the living.

Then we are alone and my father sighs. “You were always a terrible liar, Katniss. Even as a young child when you would climb trees after your mother forbid it. So. Tell me the truth.”

“It is not so simple,” I tell him and he nods.

“Matters of the heart rarely are. Should I be concerned? Challenge him to a duel? I will do so this instant if you say it is required, although I am not fond of my chances, given that I recently woke from a coma. At least it was not my firing arm that was cut away.”

“There is no need for a duel, Papa.” I nearly snort in laughter at his words.

He lifts his hand with the piece of hay in it. “And this? I am not so foolish as to be ignorant of what this likely means.”

“Papa,” I say, unable to meet his eyes as my body heats with the memory of Peeta’s hands and lips on me, of his body on top of mine and the feel of him between my legs. The way it felt and the sounds we made as we each found satisfaction. This is not the ideal place to be getting aroused.

“Katniss, my dear girl, I always wanted you to be happy in life. That includes in your marriage. Tell me you did not rush off out of fear of my pending death to marry the first wealthy man who offered for you.”

“No. I did not.”

“No?” my father asks, a smirk on his face, still sensing the untruth in my words.

“Peeta was the second wealthy man who offered for me,” I say and my father startles at this.

“The second, you say?”

“It is a long story, Papa, and I am not exactly proud of everything in it. I did what I felt was necessary and...and I was quite fortunate in the results. He is not like his father. Not even a little. He is kind and generous and he always sees the best in people. He is...well I might as well tell you as you will no doubt hear it soon from others. He is not of legitimate birth.”

“I see…” We fall silent then, the quiet an awkward cloud around us. I do not know what to say to him. For the first time in my life, I do not know what to say to my father, someone whom I once felt comfortable in confiding everything. 

He heaves another sigh and motions for me to sit in the bedside chair. I move to do so and twist my fingers together nervously. “Well it is clear that the initial circumstances of your marriage may not have been ideal. However, I sense that...there is more to it than that. So tell me, Firecracker. Are you happy in your marriage, in a general sense?”

“Yes. I am,” I whisper, astonished to find that it is the truth, and he nods.

“Very well then. Tell me about your husband.” I lift my eyes, and take in my father’s gentle smile. “I have slept a long time, my girl. I think it time I ceased neglecting my family and caught up on the news, don’t you?”

I laugh slightly then and shake my head, wiping away the pesky tears that seem determined to form on my lower lashes.

“Where shall I start?”

“How about the beginning,” he encourages softly.


	16. Chapter 16

After my talk with my father, I am strangely full of nerves. I manage a bath and change of dress, although given the uproar the house is in, Mary is not available to help me dress, and so I wear an older dress, something simple and loose that does not require a corset. I wrap a light shawl about my shoulders, feeling oddly bare without the undergarment, and spend a few moments in the study, attending to tasks left neglected while Peeta and I were caught in the stables. In truth, the tasks could wait until tomorrow, but I am not certain I wish to be near anyone right now, my head awhirl with so many thoughts and the enormity of the events of today. The tasks do not take long, however, and I then return to my parents’ rooms in time for yet another uproar.

“Really, Kent. We can have dinner brought up to you,” my mother insists.

“Darling, you know I respect your opinion as a healer but this is too much,” my father argues, hobbling from his room with the aid of a cane, garbed in a dressing robe and slippers. “I have been bedridden for months and will continue to be so no longer. It is a simple trip down the stairs and then dinner. Nothing to it.”

“Perhaps some assistance the first trip down the stairs,” I suggest then.

“Pish, child. Will my own daughter now dictate my actions? I am not an invalid any more. Step aside.”

“Kent--”

“Cease your fussing.”

My mother purses her lips and retracts her hands from my father. My throat constricts. I have no memories of my father speaking to my mother, or to me thus. With such...anger and annoyance. No memories of them fighting so openly, nor of him scolding me. It is not like him at all.

He approaches the stairs and, for one breathless moment, sways precariously. Gasps fill the air and then Peeta’s there, grasping my father by the elbow to steady him. Father glares at Peeta.

“It changes the balance.”

“Twas not a leg,” my father argues and Peeta nods.

“Do you hold your arms stationary when you walk then?” My father ponders this for a moment and then shrugs.

“I suppose not,” he concedes.

“It takes time to adjust. Which hand do you write with?”

“The right,” my father says.

“That is most fortunate. You’ll not need to relearn writing. Other tasks may require some adjustment, but no matter, they are still possible,” Peeta says as he takes one step, exceptionally slow. “It took me at least three months to learn to walk properly again. Learning again how to ride a horse turned out to be easier, once I could manage to get in the damn saddle. And stairs...well that is a more recent accomplishment.”

“You did not sleep on the ground floor… on a sofa, for months, did you?”

“No, but there are other ways besides walking to ascend and descend the stairs...have you watched a toddler learning to take them? The way they sit and use their arms more than their legs?” At this, my father actually laughs.

“Apologies. I mean no offense,” he says.

“Of course not. Small victories are in truth not such small accomplishments with a missing limb.”

Peeta continues talking as they descend, one step at a time with Peeta supporting my father. Peeta tells another story of the first time he tried to ride a horse after his amputation and my mother clutches at her throat with one hand and my arm with the other as we follow their sedate pace. A concerned footman moves to assist, but Peeta waves the man off as Father laughs again at the image Peeta paints of himself relearning how to walk and how to mount a horse with his tone humorous rather than piteous.

“Then I found Cicero and that changed everything,” Peeta explains, prompting my father of course to ask about Cicero.

Absorbed in their talk as it shifts to horseflesh and how Peeta and Joe trained Cicero, my father and my husband safely reach the landing. My father is intrigued, I can tell, at this idea of training a horse to bow to assist in mounting. Father is short a hand and will need to learn how to mount one handed or make similar adjustments.

He wheezes and pauses at the foot of the stairs, reaches out for Peeta to steady himself.

“I do not recall there being so many stairs in this house,” Father says.

“You should try them with a wooden leg sometime.” My father stares at Peeta for a moment and then chuckles. The sound is wondrous and then he nods, seeming to reach some sort of conclusion.

“Perhaps some assistance into the dining room,” he says. “At least until I am more recovered.”

Two footmen hurry forward and I hear Peeta whisper, “Small victories, Mr. Everdeen,” then he leaves my father in their care. Beside me, my mother releases a heavy breath and my heart begins to beat normally again. We reach the first floor and my mother lets go of me to grasp Peeta’s face. She pulls him down to kiss his cheek and then hurries after my father.

Peeta offers his arm to me and I stare at him rather than take it. I stare until his cheeks turn pink and he lowers his proffered arm. Then I finally ask what I need to know. “Why would he listen to you and not his wife nor his daughter?”

“How often do you use two hands for a task? Eating? Bathing? Dressing? Reading a book? Working in the fields?” My cheeks burn as I begin to understand what Peeta means. “There is no aspect of his life that will be left untouched by this and that is a difficult thing to accept, especially when one has no knowledge of the amputation until much later. You, your sister, your mother, the servants, even Madge, have all known him as an active and independent man. Now he requires assistance or time to relearn simple tasks. He will want to do these things on his own, to prove to himself and to everyone in his life that he is no less of a man.”

“That’s ridiculous.”

“Is it?” His eyes flash in the dim lighting of the hall and I see in them the challenge. The dare to deny that what he says is true. “If you do not believe me, then hold your left hand in your lap tonight for the entire meal. See how well you can slice your meats and wield a knife one handed.”

And the trouble is, Peeta  _ is _ right. I cannot imagine the amount of pride my father will need to swallow tonight in asking assistance to cut his food, like a child. We could rage about the unfairness of it all, but my father is a man of strong constitution and of strong convictions. He always has been and I know that while the road may not be smooth, I have hope he will travel it successfully. Perhaps with some help.

I loop my arm through Peeta’s then, my fingers curling around his bicep. Angry with myself for not understanding my father’s psyche, yet grateful for how steady Peeta is now, for how quickly he responded upstairs to prevent another disaster. I only wish I had thought to act sooner. I would have thought that concern might be easier to accept from a daughter than a stranger, but then again, perhaps not. Peeta has never known my father until today. Perhaps this is another role tailor made for my husband. Doctor Aurelius has said repeatedly that Peeta’s experience would be invaluable in helping my father adjust. Tonight’s scene must be precisely what the doctor referred to.

“I shall talk to Mrs. Chilton and Mrs. Rooba tonight about perhaps adding more stews, dishes eaten more with spoon or just a fork, and tender meats, to the menu for the upcoming weeks. Fish is easily sliced with just a fork is it not?” I say quietly as we enter the dining room. Madge and Prim are already here.

“Yes. Yes it is.”

Dinner is a strange, informal affair. There is father in his dressing robe and slippers, myself in my faded walking dress and shawl. The other ladies of my family have been so absorbed in the excitement over Father’s recovery that none bothered to change from their day dresses. Of our party, Peeta is the only one both freshly washed and formally garbed for a usual dinner.

For months now, our seating arrangement has been fluid and shifting, although Peeta would usually sit beside me. With father back at the head of the table, Primrose has seated herself in her old position, leaving the seat to father’s immediate left open for me. Peeta sees me seated in my old chair, between father and Prim, and moves around to the other side of the table, to sit in between my mother and Madge. I shift in the chair, for some reason unsettled. At least I am not the only one. Peeta appears suddenly ill at ease.

Mother, however, appears to have recovered from our fright on the stairs. She glows brighter than the candles. I have not seen her so happy in months. Primrose is full of stories and news, and thankfully she mentions Rory Hawthorne, which shifts Father’s focus of concern from my romantic interests to hers, as well as to the matter of inheritance. 

Otherwise the mood is light as Madge and Primrose swap stories across the table of recent months mingled with those of a more distant past, with stories of our youth, ones that my father laughs at. He even refrains from commenting at his much different meal -- a bowl of broth, another of tender cooked apples, and a crust of bread. I am relieved to see him accepting the doctor’s orders at least and the dishes tonight for him do not require a knife.

The stories, however, only seem to push Peeta further into his state of quietude. 

My hand in my lap grasps tightly to the folds of my skirt as I eat, blowing gently on my vegetables to cool them before consuming, watching my husband across the table as he withdraws further into himself and wondering if our path together will ever be straightforward.

There is no denying the joy I feel at Father’s revival. His laughter and loving presence have been sorely missed. Several hours ago, I would have given anything to bring him back to us. Now that he has, I wonder if the cost will be what little gains Peeta and I have made in our relationship. Yet, I cannot see why that should be.

“The Doctor says I am not to ride for at least a week, until I gain my strength back a little, but I cannot stay confined to bed. Tomorrow, Katniss, we shall take a cart and you can drive me about the estate. Show me what you have been up to.”

“Are you certain that is wise, Kent?” Mother asks, worry plain in her voice. I should have Peeta speak to her as well and perhaps help explain Father’s mental state.

“I think it necessary. I’ve been abed for months. It is high time I cease being so lazy. Katniss, what say you?”

“Of course, Papa,” I agree immediately, before I realise that the invitation did not include Peeta, and what my father proposes is something that Peeta and I have taken to doing together since...well since my father could not.

I briefly catch Peeta watching me before his eyes return to Madge and he speaks quietly to her, answering whatever question it was that she asked him. I did not hear and I am not sure that I care. There is a sudden tightness in my chest and a sense that he is somehow slipping away from me, just as we had begun to truly understand one another.

The dinner is excellent, and most are in high spirits as we adjourn to the drawing room. My father is ensconced on a settee, my mother fussing over him while he pretends to be annoyed by her attentions. His quick swings between accepting and rejecting help will be difficult to deal with, but we will manage, I tell myself. We must.

Prim sits at the piano and my father asks me to sing. I cannot turn down such an entreaty, and soon become engrossed in the music.

It is after the third song we perform, as my father applauds with enthusiasm, that I realise our audience is short one person. I hadn’t even noticed Peeta slip away. Wherever did he go? When did he leave? Does he find my singing deplorable? I have been told that my voice is quite pleasant, beautiful even.

I am not given a chance to bring attention to his absence, however as that is when my mother yawns, insisting that she is much too tired for further amusements. I hurry from the room as soon as I see that Father is willing to accept assistance from one of the footmen in escorting my mother to their rooms.

My mother’s protests follow me, but I hear my father’s calm voice halting her objections. “Let her go, dear. They are still sorting through what it all means.”

I shake my head, confused as to what exactly my father refers. My feet carry me from one room to the next until I find Peeta in the study, bent over the desk and sorting through a stack of parchment.

“Is my singing voice so dreadful to you?” I ask and he startles.

“Katniss!” His hands scurry to order his papers. “I did not hear you enter.”

“Hunter’s tread and soft slippers,” I say as he finally holds the stack behind his back where I cannot see them, not quickly enough, however. I spot the edges of what is clearly one of Peeta’s drawings. “What are you doing in here?”

“Your voice is beautiful,” he says then, finally meeting my eyes and holding my gaze for the first time since we entered the dining room. “The first day I heard you sing...even in your sadness your voice was mesmerising. I think even the birds outside cease their song to listen to yours.”

“That is a pretty piece of flattery,” I say, my cheeks warming as I maneuver to trap him against the desk. “But it does not answer my questions, husband.”

“I did not wish to intrude further on a family evening,” he says. My feet halt as I recall something he once said to me in our bed at night.

_ I am used to being unwanted. _

“I came in here to clean out my mess, make the drawer available again and--”

“And what? Strike your presence from our lives?” Such a question would normally come forth with venom in my voice, but I think I begin to understand my husband and what motivates him, perhaps even the direction of several of his thoughts.

“I am aware that I am no longer necessary to you, Katniss. The only reason you sought a marriage was in case your father should die, and now he is thankfully recovered.”

“Not entirely. You could help him, as doctor Aurelius said.”

“And I will. I shall also endeavor to not cause problems for you. As it turns out, you needn’t have married anyone at all.”

“Tis a little late for regrets and second thoughts now, don’t you think?”

“Yes, well. I told you we should have stopped,” he says. “You should be with your family now, Katniss. Tis a joyful thing, your father returning to you.”

And that for some reason, triggers my anger. The idea that I could celebrate even as Peeta withdraws from me, the thought that perhaps he now regrets what transpired between us in the stables when I cannot, the implications in his words that Peeta is somehow not a part of my family. I reach around him and snatch a handful of papers before he can respond. Several of them are torn from both our grips and flutter to the floor. Peeta makes a sound of protest and grasps at me, but I am too quick and move several steps out of his reach.

“Are these for the plant book?” I ask. “Why would you hide them?”

“They’re not for the plant book,” Peeta says and his words halt my feet. I watch as he carefully bends to retrieve the rest from the floor.

“Then...what are they?” He sighs heavily and I hold them close to my chest. “May I see them?”

“You may as well,” he mutters and waves a dismissive hand at me. I scowl but glance down at the one on top of the stack.

My heart stops. 

Only for a moment as I stare at the drawing in my hand and flip to the next and then it roars back to life.

Me. They are drawings of me. All of them. Here I am smiling, lounging in the garden, head tipped up to absorb the warm rays of the sun. There I am riding Sagittaria with a serious mein and then with laughter on my lips. Perched in a tree with a book and my skirts draped towards the ground. Another of me with head bent and eyes half closed, lost in contemplation. In my nightgown, feet curled up beneath me in my chair as I gaze into the fire, a glass in my hands. Pouring tea with a scowl on my face. Playing happily with Maysilee. Walking and sharing secrets with Madge. Several studies of eyes and braids and even my hands holding a bow. At least two dozen sketches, all exquisitely drawn with ragged edges on their left side. Torn from a book, I realise. 

I am too stunned to speak at first. My upset and jealousy -- yes I will admit now that I was hurt and jealous that Peeta seemed to use everyone and everything in his life as a model for his art except for me — is now proven so very wrong and ill founded.

“Why...why would you hide these?” The words stick to my throat like stale bread.

“Things were uncertain enough between us. I did not wish to make you uncomfortable with my obsessive scribbles,” he says, finally catching me as I have not been able to move since looking at the first drawing of me. He reaches for the papers in my hands and I hold them to my chest, out of his reach.

“Why do you draw me like this?”

“Like what?” he asks, and I can hear the frustration in his voice.

“As though you find me beautiful! Or hold me dear to you!”

He laughs then, although there is little humour in it. “Are you mocking me?”

“I think  _ you _ mock  _ me _ , sir. All your pretty words about my singing and the things you said to me in the stables today...yet you would hide these from me? Give up on our marriage?”

“I am not giving up on our marriage!”

“But you are withdrawing from it. Are you not? That is what this is about, lessening your presence in our lives.”

“It’s clear that other than assisting your father adjust, I am no longer needed here, and that will only be a temporary requirement. He will get better, and soon. Therefore --”

“You  _ are  _ needed! I need you!”

Peeta is finally silent then. As am I, as the truth of the words manifests in my chest. I have come to rely on him in so many ways I can scarcely take stock of them, not just in helping to care for my father. Our lives have become...entwined. He remains silent as I hand the drawings back to him.

“You made me beautiful,” I accuse again. “I am scarred and you have made me beautiful.”

“I did not. I draw you as I see you. You are already beautiful. Scars could never change that.”

“Then perhaps you need spectacles,” I say as he shuffles the papers together and sets them on top of the desk.

“I assure you, my eyesight is perfect.”

“Really? Such a claim to make when you are blind to what is right in front of you. Circumstances have changed since our betrothal.”

“Yes, I am aware,” he says with frustration and a hand in his hair.

“Therefore I think it time we re-examine the terms of our alliance.”

“Of course, madame. As you wish,” he says, with a slight incline of his head. All business and aloof, perfunctory.

“Grant me patience! You are insufferably noble sometimes.” I grasp his hand and drag him from the room. Up the stairs as he questions what I am doing. I do not stop, nor do I answer him until we are in our chambers.

Mary stands, wide eyed, from a seat by the fire. “Mrs. Mellark, I--”

  
“Your services are not needed tonight, Mary. Enjoy the evening,” I say, uncaring what sort of servants’ gossip my actions will unleash. She curtsies and races from the room with one astonished look over her shoulder at me. I shut the door in her wake and lock it. There will be no interruptions tonight.

All of my bravado vanishes when I face Peeta.

Despite the fact that we consummated our marriage in the stables today -- oh good heavens! I consummated my marriage in a bed of horse food. Father Crane was quite right in calling me a tart when I was fifteen and still running around in breeches. Now my transgressions have taken on a new form and my cheeks burn as Peeta stands there and waits. Clears his throat and watches me expectantly.

“Now what, madame?”

His insolent smirk gives me a conduit for my frustrations and I stand tall, lifting my chin to deliver my next words.

“Now you take me to bed.”

I am left reeling by my own words. That is not at all what I meant to say! and Peeta’s lifted eyebrows reveal that it is not what he expected to hear me say.

“It’s a little early for that. What will the servants say?” I scowl at this, at the knowing look in his eyes that tells me he has determined my dislike for being the topic of gossip in the kitchens.

“I have had a most trying day. How do you know I am not seconds away from hysteria and need to take to my bed?”

“I rather doubt that, Katniss. As you have told me repeatedly, you are not so fragile. Try again.”

“I need a reason to take my husband to bed?”

“I’m not certain that it is a good idea, given--”

“Of course it is. You take me to bed, removing my corset this time. Don’t think I didn’t notice you neglected to remove my clothing this afternoon--”

“I was concerned with being discovered. I thought it wise to leave you somewhat dressed in case we needed to respond with haste.”

“Yes, well that is a fine excuse, but I have locked the door and we are husband and wife. What we will do in our bed is quite expected.”

“Quite expected,” he says and takes a few hesitant steps towards me. He gazes down at me with fire in his blue eyes. “How very...responsible of you, madame. You are playing pious again, hiding behind duty. Or is that what you truly want? The way you were today in the stable, and last night, was that all an act to convince me to consummate this sham of a marriage? To perform my  _ duty _ to you?”

“No,” I deny, unable to tear my eyes away from his mouth, nor my mind from the memory of what extraordinary things that mouth has done to me, even as my heart aches at his words. “And our marriage is no sham!”

“Then what happens tomorrow morning? What am I to you then? A nuisance?”

“You are my husband, my partner, my...” I gasp out and lift my eyes to his. He seems a little stunned. I fill the silence with words I cannot seem to stop. “I expect you to wake beside me tomorrow and perhaps kiss me before we dress, then break the fast with me. I expect you to plan adventures with Maysilee while we eat and to be there for her as you have been. She has come to love and rely on you and I will not see you break her heart. I wish to work more on our book, as we were...distracted today and did not accomplish much on it.” As I speak, my words gain strength and conviction. “I want you to ride with me, and my father tomorrow, to help me show him how we have cared for our home and to see to any pressing needs. You are expected at dinner and then in whatever family amusements claim the evening. And after all of that, I expect you in this room, in that bed,” I fling my hand towards it now, “With me, where you will sleep beside me unless we choose to not sleep. And I most certainly expect flowers and a drawing from you. You promised them, and I took you for a man of your word, Peeta Mellark, a man with a sense of honor that is unmatched.”

I turn away then, unable to face the possibility that I have read this entirely wrong and just made a fool of myself. He grasps my arm and turns me back to face him. “ _ Our _ home?”

“Yes, you obstinate bastard.  _ Our _ home,” I say, although there is no bite in my words, because I can see in his eyes that those two words are precisely what he needs to hear. 

Our home. And it has become so, hasn’t it. Just as I can no longer imagine Everdeen without Madge and Maysilee, Peeta too has planted himself firmly into this place. Without him...I do not even want to consider it.

But at the moment, I can see that his fears need assuaging. I see in his eyes the flickering remains of a child whose world was upended first with death then with a simple game played with the wrong boy. But wrong to whom? I see the pain of a boy on the cusp of manhood abandoned by the only person left whom he’d known to love him unconditionally, abandoned for a supposed chance at a better life in the dubious care of those who would spend years making him feel unwelcome, unwanted, inferior, even as they saw him educated and dressed in fine clothes. And I see the ghost of a man who was sent away to the military when his presence could no longer be tolerated, with the expectation that he would not return. The shadows of the man who survived anyways and was then forced to relearn how to walk through a world that did not wish to see him for two reasons rather than one, and most especially I see the man who was coerced into marriage with his brother’s discarded fiancé. I understand fully the sting of that last one. I felt it myself the day we signed our engagement contract. 

I can see in his eyes the reflections of a man who was required to be content with the leavings and table scraps, yet has somehow found it in his heart to create a life -- a good life -- here with me out of what could have easily been a misery. But Peeta has needed to act in this manner nearly his entire life, as a matter of survival, learning when his welcome had run thin and it was time to move on to another sphere or change his purpose to those around him.

No longer. His welcome has not run out here yet and I intend for it to never run out. We shall take the table scraps given us and make a feast.

I slide my hands up his chest then, up to his neck as I press my body to his. “I want you to be here tomorrow, Peeta, and the day after that, and the day after that one, just as you have been. You promised to love, honor, comfort, and cherish me, until death do us part, husband, and I will hold you to those vows. Are those terms agreeable to you?”

“I suppose those will work,” he says, his hands resting on my back, a light touch as he lowers his head towards mine. “You are not disappointed? Now that you are truly and needlessly stuck with the crippled, bastard son?”

“I know exactly who I married, and I am not disappointed at all,” I whisper right before he kisses me. I savour the touch of his lips to mine just for a moment before I allow myself to sink into his embrace, into the depth of feeling and sensation.

There is no rush this time, no frustration or doubt. No fear of being discovered nor interrupted. We both know where this kiss will end and yet neither of us are in a hurry to arrive there. He kisses me as though he has the rest of our lives to do so and yet it awakens a towering need inside me. 

I search through fabric until I find the ends of his cravat and slowly untie it. Peeta lifts his head, ending one kiss and resting his forehead on mine as I pull the length of silk free and leave it on the floor.

“The poor valet,” he says with a rueful shake of his head. I laugh and guide his hands to the sash tied about my waist. He understands and grasps one end, pulling until the knot falls apart. We take slow steps towards the bed, leaving a trail of clothing across the bedroom floor as we undress one another. My skin tingles. Alive with the touches of air and Peeta’s skin on mine. Alive in the way one feels after a good, deep yawn, and yet I am not the slightest bit sleepy, despite my eyes drooping. They do so with want. We peel off layer after layer until we are down to my chemise and stockings, his trousers and shirt as we come to stand right beside the bed.

He kisses me again, a language more profound than words, in some ways, his hands gently holding my jaw. We reaffirm territory already explored. The taste of him sparks recognition and comfort as well as desire now. The trailing of my fingers down his neck, down over soft linen shirt, down to his waist, gives rise to such goose flesh and need. His eyes never leave mine as I gather fabric in my hands and lift. Up and up and over his head until I must stand on my toes and then can reach no further. Peeta takes over then, discarding his shirt and standing motionless for me to examine him.

I allow my eyes to roam over the expanse of skin now bared to me, uncertain where to even begin touching him. I step back slightly and take him in -- the broad shoulders and chords of muscle on his arms, the burn scars extending down from his face to cover one side of his neck and splay over his left shoulder, like a handprint forever etched onto his skin in flames, the touch of violence and war leaving its visible marks on him. A curved line over his ribs that looks like it was perhaps caused by a knife. The scattered dark blonde hairs on his chest that tighten into a line pointing down, down to his trousers where I cannot see the end but am eager to find it.

“Are you simply going to stare all night, wife?” he asks, and while there is teasing in his tone, there is also a slight thread of uncertainty. I lift my palms and set them on his pectorals, breaking the thread of uncertainty and casting it aside.

He is so warm and solid, like a stone kept in fire to heat and soothe in the coldest of winters. His breathing lifts his chest and my hands in unison, and with a quick glance at his eyes to ensure that I am not overstepping, I run my hands over him, learning the shape and the feel of him beneath my palms. Up to his shoulders then down his arms to his wrists, where my fingers tickle slightly before venturing back up to his shoulders. 

I trace the outline of fire branded into his skin, watching my fingers as they skim over ridges and crests. We are both of us marked by flames. A pair of beasts forged in fire and branded as unwanted. A scarred should have been a spinster woman, and a crippled bastard man. I can feel tears in my eyes as I think on the pain I endured and how such pain exists in his past as well, perhaps tenfold with his leg. I flatten my palm over the scars and lift my gaze to his. 

Without a word spoken between us, I somehow know that we understand one another in ways few others can. So I continue learning his body. My palm skimming over heated flesh, curving over the scar on his ribs, meandering down to his abdomen.

As in the stable, certain muscles of his flinch and contract, but he remains planted where he stands and allows my exploration. I step forward and slide my hands around his waist to his back, finding that expanse to be much the same. Warm, solid, responsive to my touches. I cannot look at him as a curiosity takes hold and I press my mouth to his skin, just at the edge of one scar. He sighs and finally moves, lifting one hand to my hair. He plucks pins from my tresses as I kiss him. They fall discarded to the floor with each caress of my lips over him until my hair hangs loose down my back.

Peeta buries one hand there, cradling my head gently as I explore with my lips as I did with my hands. He lifts his other hand to caress over my shoulder, to move aside my chemise and mirror the touches over my own scars. When my lips reach the barrier of his trousers, though, his hand tightens in my hair and he brings me up to stand before him again.

“Now your turn,” he whispers with a smile so beguiling, I can forgive the interruption of my exploration. Especially when he first joins our mouths in a heated kiss that soon has me clawing at his chest and his neck, bending my body to bring myself as close to him as possible. I feel the hard proof of his arousal against my belly so that when he grabs fistfuls of my chemise, I eagerly lift my arms for him to remove it, shivering only slightly as the removal of the fabric, warmed from its hours spent so close to my body, leaves me slightly chilled and standing before him in naught but my stockings.

Peeta takes my hands in his then and lifts my arms out to my sides, his eyes taking their turn in roaming over me, their blue depths lit with an unmistakable flame of desire. I cannot hold such an intense gaze and drop my eyes, only to see the effect I already know our kisses and touches have had on him in the tenting of his trousers.

I look away then, focusing on the candle set beside our bed as he steps closer. Then his lips brush over my skin, on my shoulder. Higher until he reaches scars. I hear a soft sigh, ripe with longing and wonder if I am responsible for such a sound or if he is.

“Katniss,” he murmurs, his fingers scarcely touching me as he caresses over my body. He traces round my navel, down to tease dark curls, then back up to circle nipples, with such reverence that I am tormented, burning and yearning yet not ready to move on from how this feels.

“Draw me like this?” I gasp and he laughs, the sound light yet somehow tortured.

“Not now?”

“No, of course not,” I say. Then something occurs to me as I cling to his shoulders and my knees quake with the kisses he paints over my neck, the way his fingers barely seem to connect with my skin as he traces over shoulder blades then down my spine to my hips, arcing over swells and curves, teasing hidden places. “Would I have to pose for you?”

“Not unless you wish to, my love. You are now etched permanently in my memory. I do not think I will ever forget the way you appear right this moment.”

“Oh,” I say, more in response to his kisses than to his words. They leave me aquiver in a most delicious manner.

“I would have to hide that drawing in a very secure place, for I do not wish to share you in this state with anyone else.”

“Nor I you,” I murmur. His lips gift me with sweet, indulgent kisses, sensual licks and suction that makes my eyes roll back in my head and my knees weaken to the point that they buckle and he has to hold me upright. “Oh God my thoughts were quite right about you that day we met.” 

I have to step out of his embrace and sit on the bed, moving to the center, away from him before my brain is turned completely to slush and my skin burned away to ash.

“Oh?” he asks, a smile playing about his lips. 

“You have a sinner’s touch,” I say and he laughs, his cheeks turning pink.

“You make it sound like I am a rake.”

“Well, it is twice now that you have gotten me into bed and failed to remove my corset…”

“You weren’t wearing one tonight,” he says, his voice dark and delicious. “And we weren’t in bed earlier.”

“Details,” I say with a flippant wave of my hand and then wait for him to proceed. He does not at first, and I decide to give him some encouragement.

“Go on then,” I motion towards his lower half and bite my lip. 

He shakes his head, smiling slightly as he begins to unfasten his trousers while my teeth bite deeper. My pulse spikes once or twice in anticipation. I’ve never seen all of him, not even this afternoon in the stables, my skirts and our bodies blocked my line of sight. His eyes stay on mine, perhaps searching for doubt or regret, but he will not find any, for I feel none. 

He turns and pushes the garments down. I am gifted with a brief view of taut buttocks and narrow hips before he sits to finish removing his clothes and his false leg. Then I am given the chance to truly admire his back and shoulders and the strength so readily apparent in them. I’ve already experienced that strength, plucked from the mud with such ease, like a dandelion after it has gone to seed.

Bracing one hand on the bed, he turns to face me, halting on his knee and the truncated end of his left leg and spreading his hands to his sides for my examination, one eyebrow quirked and his head cocked in question.

I am leisurely in my perusal of him, his thick thighs of which I am already somewhat familiar, the thin trail of hair that I can now see fully, leading all the way down to a thatch of more cradling the source of my curiosity and many a maid’s anxieties. Yet I can no longer feel anxious, now that I already know how it feels to be joined with Peeta and that he will take care with me. It is a good thing too, otherwise I might be concerned that he would not fit. I am fortunate to already know that he fits quite well. There is, however, one detail that inflames my cheeks and teases my desire to new heights. 

“Are you blushing, husband?” 

I refer to the pink shade of his engorged flesh, so striking set against the rest of his fair skin. He glances down and blushes in truth, his cheeks and neck turning a matching, ruddy color.

“I suppose in a way I am. Not out of embarrassment, though, I assure you madame.”

“Hmmm, I should think not,” I tease and rise to my knees, crawling upright on them towards him until I can feel the warmth of his skin radiating onto mine. I glance down then and reach out to watch my own motions as I touch him. Peeta sucks in a sharp breath and rests his hands on my elbows in a light touch. “I am not hurting you, am I?”

“No,” he says through a strained laugh. “Though I may expire from this.”

“Is it not acceptable for a wife to touch and discover what pleases her husband? You did for me,” I whisper and he sways but does not stop me. I marvel at the heat of him, the weight in my palm and the contrast of softness and rigidity. 

“It is perfectly acceptable.”

“Am I doing this wrong then?”

“God no,” he says with such vehemence. “Your touch is… so pure.” If I were not already blushing, that would turn me bright red. Then something terrible occurs to me. A brief image of another woman touching my husband thus. A woman who knows how to please him where I am only just beginning to learn, and perhaps the purity of my touch is not a compliment.

“Have you been married before?” I ask, my grip tightening in reflex as the cursed words leave my mouth. I never thought to ask before now. Peeta groans and sets his hands over mine. He leans towards me and begins kissing my ear.

“No, Katniss. I have never been married before, and before you ask again, I have lain with two others before you. One was due to the stupid impetuousness of youth, the other lasted only one night and happened because I was feeling sorry for myself, certain that I would die alone a crippled soldier. They were both well over a year ago, several years ago in the case of the first.”

“Oh,” I say, a strange lightness lifting my spirits as our eyes meet, my hands still full of him. “Did you remove her corset at least?”

He laughs then, full and hearty. “I honestly do not recall enough of the encounter to remember such details. I was not in a fair state of mind… to be frank, I was drunk.”

“A tactful answer. Will you forget me then and blame the wine?” I say and he glances down at where I have him in hand. My eyes follow his for a second before meeting his blues once more.

“I am not exactly in a position to anger you and limp away unscathed, madame.” I blush furiously at that, but there is something in his eyes that makes me feel bold and empowered, rather than chastened or cowed. Somehow I know, Peeta is enjoying both our banter and our touches as much as I. He leans forward and brushes his lips over mine. “And I am completely, blissfully aware of everything we have done today. It will not be easily forgotten.” His words flow through me, intoxicating like wine, and warm. Mollified, I am able to tease him further.

“Are you not going to ask me how many men I have lain with?” A smile curves his lips and mine mirror the action. I tilt my head and shoulders in what I hope is a coy expression. 

“God do I love your spirit,” he whispers as he cups my jaw in his palms again and kisses me. “How many men have you lain with before me, Katniss?”

“None, and I shall thank you to never ask me such an insulting question again, husband,” I say with false superiority and no bite to my words. I could not summon any if I wanted to. My lips are consumed with kissing him and my hands with touching him, learning him. In between kisses, he whispers to me. He whispers words of guidance and promises. Such delicious promises that make me eager to hand the reins back to him, but not before I am completely familiar with his body.

It is not long before his breathing turns ragged and his eyes hazy. His head tips back and he bites into his lip. The sight of him thus makes me think of what he did with his mouth in the stables. Surely there must be an equivalent act for me to perform for him. I kiss the hollow of his throat and am working up the courage to try loving him with my mouth when his hands drop to mine and pry my touch away from him. 

“Stop. You have to stop.”

“Why do I?” I ask, confused and hurt.

“Because if you do not, I will spill all over your hands and the sheets.”

“Oh,” I say and let go of him. Then I was doing well, I think with a small thrill of pride.

I’ve no chance to ask him though, as his kisses have turned insistent. Passionate and deep as he shifts us both so that our naked bodies press together. I moan into his mouth, the sound undignified and desperate, but I cannot control the way his heat feels, engulfing me in a sensual embrace like nothing I have experienced before. The intimacy of flesh to flesh unparalleled in my memory as I cling to him and match his kisses as best I can, with every ounce of fervor I feel for him.

I know a moment of unsease as he lays me on my back and covers me, but then his mouth and his hands touch everywhere. I relax beneath his almost reverent kisses and yet I am strung tight as a bow, ready to spring. His hands precede his lips, and soon I am quivering on the sheets. Desperate so much so that when his hand curves around my hip, down to cup one thigh, I open my legs without question for him to settle between them.

His mouth returns to mine then and something slender slides inside me. “Oh mercy. Katniss,” he groans to the space between my parted lips then kisses me again, rough and fast before lifting his head to gaze down at me. “You overwhelm me.” 

I cling to his arms as he touches me and finds hidden patches inside me that make me shudder and moan and beg. I can no longer draw a decent breath and plead with him, gasping his name and writhing against his hand, a sinful tart drawn to his touch. 

“I wish to be inside you when you climax,” he whispers then bites gently on my ear. I give a breathless agreement and wonder to myself if he will be able to last. My only experience thus far is the stable, when he finished before and without me. Granted there was the way he kissed me to completion before that— 

His fingers find the small patch of need his tongue worshipped in the stables and I cry out, the sound sharp and loud in our room. His mouth covers mine and our breaths make ragged music in the night as I plant me feet on the bed and let my hips move freely, seeking and aching for those rolling waves of release. 

My muffled sounds crescendo against his tongue as I draw tighter and closer. My fingers rake bars of delight into his skin. I cannot get close enough and then he rolls on the bed, taking me with him so that I am sitting on his stomach, straddling him. My body aches, denied the pleasure it so desires, right on the cusp.

“What are we doing?” I ask, uncertain of his plans. I have no scullery tales, no whispers of maids nor cooks, nor even Madge to place what is happening as he pushes my hips up and back so that I hover over his erection.

“You are going to ride me,” he says and I sputter at that.

“What like a horse?”

“With a few noticeable differences but yes. Very much like a horse,” he says with a laugh and a cheeky smile. “More like bareback riding. And do not try to convince me that you’ve never ridden a horse bareback, you hoyden. I shan’t believe you if you try.” His words carry no insult, and so I take none, only desire and wonder. His hand caresses up my thigh then, back to my sex where he resumes what he was doing just seconds ago until I am mindless in my arousal and unable to hold still. “Yes, like that my pearl. Open for me.”

I vaguely feel him again, sliding past my entrance as his fingers leave me. A growing fullness and his low, elongated moan until my hips are flush with his and I am dizzy with the need to move, although I do not know how until Peeta rests his hands on my hips and guides me in a slow circle over him. I make an incoherent sound. My fingers dig into his chest and my head rolls back, hair brushing my back and his thighs. I find a rhythm and surrender to it, riding after the spreading pleasure that warms me throughout.

“Wait! Wait!” Peeta gasps and grasps my hips, holding me still on top of him. Frustrated, I growl and stare down at him, annoyed with the interruption, since there’s no good reason for it.

“What about…” he swallows before finishing his question. “...what about children?”

I glance around the room and growl again. “There are none here.”

“No,” he says with a slight laugh and a shake of his head. “No I meant the possibility.” He flattens his hand on my belly and I stare down at it. His fair skin almost pale against my darker tone. “Of… our children.”

My eyes meet his again as it registers, what he’s asking. “You want to discuss this  _ now _ ?”

“Admittedly my timing is poor.” His eyes drop to where we are joined and he makes a small whimpering noise as I shift my weight on him. “And I realise that I am also late raising this issue. Given what transpired this afternoon, but there are precautions we should take if you do not want children yet or at all…” he trails off as I laugh. I laugh and rest one elbow on his chest, leaning down onto my hand.

“Yes, I know. My mother is a healer after all. There was a tea she would give to women who did not wish more children. She tracked cycles on calendars to advise them on when to abstain.”

“I see,” he says. “So then you’ve had some of this tea recently?”

We remain motionless, joined together, prepared to copulate as I consider his questions. In an instant, I live a thousand moments with him by my side. Birthdays and holidays, every season and every harvest. A parcel of children in a motley mixture of our features crawling across the rug, clamoring for his attention, climbing into my lap for kisses and cuddles. Peals of potential laughter and the echoes of future joy bring tears to my eyes, an unbearable overflowing in my breast. If it feels this way to merely consider children, what would it feel like to carry them? To nurse them and raise them? To bestow all of this love I now feel surging through me upon them?

Exquisite. That is how it would feel.

For years I had never considered my own desires where children were concerned. Romance and marriage and family seemed such an unlikely possibility after the fire. Who would want a family with an unbiddable, scarred and surly hoyden? But as Peeta gazes up at me, his eyes shining in emotion, and I think on those sheets upon sheets of his hand forever capturing me on paper as someone beautiful and intriguing, I know. He would. I ask him despite this growing certainty, if only to hear him say it.

“Do you wish to have children, Peeta?”

“Perhaps some day. If you wish to,” he whispers but his hand caressing my belly, the rasps of longing in his voice, and the feel of him throbbing inside me speaks volumes. He is too wonderful with Maysilee. If there were anyone in this world that I would wish to have children with, it would be Peeta.

My body hums with the need to move, to love him and relieve his body of it’s seed, to accept him into my womb. I can feel a content smile curling over my lips then and the widening of his eyes as I lean forward and kiss him, our chests brushing together as I feel heavy with want, with need.

“Then there is no need for precautions tonight or any other night, husband.” To prove it to him, I begin to move again. His hold on my hips loosens, though he does not fully release me, only loosens his hold enough that I may once more move freely. I am glad of his touch, the flex of his fingers on me and the additional connection keeping me grounded to him.

“Take what you want, my love. See what feels best for you.” His whispered words barely register as he cedes control to me and I move my hips, my entire body over him as I test first one movement then another. Some create a slow, melting pleasure. Others cause bright bursts of it that are nearly unbearable in their strength. Still others coil as pressure low inside me. I recognize those feelings and follow them, bracing my hands on his chest and shoulders as I feel the need to move with more urgency and strength.

“What about you?” I ask at one point and he smiles at me.

“Your pleasure pleases me.”

Through it all, Peeta’s eyes remain fixed on me -- on my eyes or my body as I move over him -- but even when I look away for a moment to close my eyes and focus on the feel of him stroking inside me, against me, or of his hands spreading loving touches over my body, whenever I open my eyes, his are there to meet me again. And I can see in his gaze, the way he looks at me now, that his drawings are no lie at all. Moving over him thus, I feel exactly as he depicts me -- beautiful, powerful, desirable, spirited. 

We are unguarded in expression and I cry out for him to not stop when he takes one breast in his mouth, the heat and suction unleashing a torrent of mirror sensations as it builds and builds until I think that I can stand no more.

Then he rises up slightly, setting one hand behind him as he joins me in movement, bodies gyrating together. He caresses over my back, down to my buttocks where he flattens his palm on me and pushes me to ride him harder. His soft words and groans spur me on and I chase the rapture until it bursts inside me, an explosion of sensation.

I know that I scream. I know that I lose control of my limbs and my hips as I continue to move erratically. I know that Peeta grasps my hips with both hands, his hips rising up into me and his hands controlling my motions in bouncing on him in a handful of rapid pulses until he shouts into my neck.

As we lay there after, both of us heaving to gain control of our lungs, his fingers trace over me. The touch is gentle and sensuous, through the coat of perspiration dotting my skin and the gooseflesh arisen from his touch and the cooling of the air breathing over my naked skin. When I am able to look up at him, he is smiling. I shift to kiss his jaw and curl my body closer to his, although I am not certain it is physically possible. His lips press a kiss to my forehead and he begins to run his fingers through my hair.

“Satisfied?” He whispers to me.

“Not until you put my pictures back in your sketchbook where they belong,” I say, barely getting the words out before a yawn takes over.

“I will do that tomorrow then.”

“Now I am satisfied, husband,” I murmur and he chuckles softly. His fingers still comb gently through my hair as I fall asleep.

****


	17. Chapter 17

I stretch like a cat, smug and satisfied. The feel of the sheets on my naked skin an arousing reminder of what transpired between them last night. Twice, in addition to the time in the stables. The delicious ache in my thighs and between my legs, really everywhere from my waist down to the soles of my feet, serves as further proof. My lips curl in a smile as my spine curls in waking. 

A fresh morning breeze drifts in through the open window, and I sigh happily, turning to slide my hand over the bed linens. I find empty space, although warmth still clings to the sheets. Peeta sits on the edge of the bed with his back to me, already partially dressed. I stretch further and pinch his rear.

Peeta jumps and I stifle a giggle as he turns to face me. A smile lights his features and he leans over, brushing back my wild hair before planting a kiss on my lips.

“Are you leaving me abed, husband?”

“I thought you might want to rest, after last night…” After he loved me so thoroughly that I can still feel him inside me now, the memory visceral and delightful.

“How many times must I tell you that I am not so fragile,” I murmur and grasp his shirt to keep him close.

“You proved yourself quite hardy last night, madame. Perhaps it is I who needs the rest then,” he teases, snatching up my hand and pressing it to his lips. The deep timbre of his voice ripples through me, quite sensual and heavy with an awed sort of appreciation. His words are no complaint.

I blush furiously as I recall the vigour of our second...no, our third coupling last night. Now that I know the carnal secrets of the marriage bed, I am discovering just how much of a strumpet I apparently am, at least where Peeta is concerned. Even now, my body awakens to the look in his eyes and the brush of his lips on my skin, the very memory of our entwined bodies and the feel of him filling me, stroking me inside and out until I burst into stars.

My blush unfurls, spreads down my body until it covers and warms me better than the blankets of our bed. I should perhaps feel embarrassed at my newly developed appetite, but I cannot summon the feeling.

“I have something for you,” he murmurs as he releases me. I sit up, holding the sheets to my breasts and eager as a child on Christmas as he hands me a leather bound book with a blank cover, twine wrapped around it, holding it closed. It is roughly the same size and weight as his sketchbook. “Perhaps… perhaps wait until I’ve gone to open it.”

I do not wish to. I wish to tear into it now, but I respect his wish as he stands and finishes dressing for the day. One last kiss that promises thousands of nights and mornings exactly like this one and then he departs. I hear him summoning Mary for me and quickly untie the twine before she can intrude.

The cover falls open in my hands to reveal dozens of blank pages, save for the second one, which is composed entirely of a drawing of me, hair wild and spread across a bed of hay and flowers, arms flung over and next to my head, my expression sultry, as I gaze up at the artist with such desire it steals my own breath away. He’s drawn my scars as faithfully and lovingly as he has my eyes or my breasts. The woman in the picture is free, unconventional and unhindered, and looking at her -- at myself -- so depicted makes me feel liberated and more than a little naughty. The drawing ends at my navel, the rest left to imagination with words in Peeta’s hand:

_ As promised...flowers and a drawing. Forever etched in my memory. Perfect as you are. _

_ Yours always,  _

_ ~P~ _

I bite my lip and shake my head at the foolish giddy happiness that seems to consume me in that moment, sitting naked in our marriage bed, aching from his love, his kiss still lingering on my lips, and his words penned over this image of me as a goddess. Stunning.

I turn back to the first page and read the note he left for me there.

_ One drawing for every day hence. Until death do us part. I would court you for months or for ever, would you allow it, my pearl.  _

I read through the note and admire the drawing of a pearl resting on the tongue of an open oyster shell that accompanies it for as long as I dare, then I tuck the sketchbook into the drawer of my bedside table, placing it there to hide beneath the book I have been reading, to hide these drawings from any helpful servants or prying sisters. These will not be drawings that I share but drawings for my eyes only.

Then I spring from the bed and don my shift, humming to myself as I brush my hair and Mary enters. It is going to be a glorious day, I can tell.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Everdeen has awakened, fully green and bountiful. The late summer harvest is upon us and I am still humming to myself as I make my way towards the stables and the carriage house to see about the cart for Father. Mother intends to bring out several blankets and pillows to make the ride as comfortable for him as possible, and I hold a brief discussion with Charles about which horses to use to make the ride docile. As I walk towards the stables, Madge emerges. 

I’ve barely had a chance to speak with her in the past few days, and certainly not in private. There’s so much to tell her, so much that has happened, and I wish to confide in my friend. I am bursting with the need to share. Only as I hurry to intercept her, she is moving faster than I. Much faster, and so absorbed in her thoughts is she that she does not even see me, continuing towards the house.

I hurry into the stables and find Joe tending to Cicero with a deep frown on his face.

“What did you do to upset the Countess?” I ask and Joe turns his glare to me.

“Her ladyship is fine. Nothing wrong with her except a touch of arrogance and not minding her own business.”

I bristle at the disparaging of my friend. “You are far too bold Mr. …” I trail off as it occurs to me that I am not certain of Joe’s surname.

“Mason,” Joe informs me. “And I’ve a mind to think perhaps you have the same problem as her ladyship.”

“I’ve no idea what you are insinuating, but I will not tolerate insults.”

“Wasn’t meant as an insult. Just an observation, Kitten,” Joe says and I scowl at the pet name, preparing to lay into him. I do not care if he saved Peeta’s life. He should not be allowed to address me so familiar. “But since you can’t stay out of my business, I’ve got more for ya. It’s fortunate that Peeta seems to like ‘em feisty.  _ Really _ likes ‘em feisty. Or perhaps he simply doesn’t like being celibate.” 

Joe’s words and the way he winks at me catch me off guard. It slowly occurs to me that perhaps Joe is Peeta’s confidante here. He has no valet, spends no time at the tavern in Seam drinking with friends. He cannot even play chess with Haymitch, nor has he had the chance to truly know my father. There are no male companions for Peeta here save for the stable man who fought in battles beside him and saved his life, helped him train his horse to be an extraordinary ally. My cheeks burn at the thought of Peeta spilling our intimate secrets to this lout and yet I cannot begrudge it to him, even as my humiliation threatens to burn straight through me and perhaps scorch a hole in the ground beneath my feet.

“I’ve no idea what you mean to imply by that, however —“

“There’s no  _ implications _ , and you  _ know _ what I’m referring to,” Joe sneers and rummages in a sack that hangs from a peg in Cicero’s stall and my breath hitches as he tosses first Peeta’s hat and then one of my gloves at me. I manage to catch both. My mouth turns dry as I recognize the articles.

“Not so arrogant now, are you?”

“Whatever Peeta told you—“

“Relax, Kitten. He shares plenty with me but he’s mum on the bedroom secrets, always kept that to himself, never gossiped or bragged in the taverns. A right gentleman, he is, even if he weren’t born one. If you knew him at all, you’d already know that. 

“Listening isn’t gossiping though, and from what I’ve heard...what I can see right now,” Joe’s eyes sweep over me from head to foot and give me the oddest feeling that he knows what I look like undressed, “I’m thinking he listened well.”

I’ve no time to even consider what that means before Joe turns and points to a dark area amongst the rafters of the stables that I had quite forgotten about.

“That loft up there is a fine place to nap, although sometimes it is difficult with all the moaning and grunting of...horses. If you catch my meaning.” He leers at me then and I suck air in through my nose, dizzy and angry as the confirmation burns me further with shame.

“How much did you see?” I ask, terrified of the answer.

“Mrs. Mellark!” He feigns insult or scandal, a cheeky smile now wide on his face. “Tis rude to  _ watch _ such personal intimacies, even if you were both too stupid to check the loft first. You’re lucky it was me and not one of the boys. They’re less given to keeping secrets.”

“Do not toy with me--”

“Ack!” He waves off my anger. “Don’t get your corset in a twist. I’ve no plans to share what I heard. I just want you to remember that I heard it. Every bit of it, so you know that I know how much you fancy him, and also how much you like having him toss up your skirts. No matter how hard you try to act better than the rest of us, you’re still the same when lust strikes.”

“To what purpose?” I seethe. “What good does it do to accuse me, to reveal that you are a lecherous voyeur?”

“So’s you don’t run off scared when things get a mite rough.” He examines his fingernails in a nonchalant manner. “That family of his is no picnic, Mrs. Mellark. And Peeta, poor neglected soul that he is, harbors a strange loyalty to them. Just like so many of us do what was wronged or abandoned by our  _ family _ . I am simply going to remind you what you stand to lose should you botch your visit to Vale. Though if anyone can get him to see sense where they’re concerned it might be you.” This last is said while he looks down at my skirts.

“Speak to my face when you address me,” I order and Joe laughs in my face.

“But why? It isn’t your face that’d be convincing him to let them go. Do you know what would be convincing him?”

“Mr. Mason, I suggest--”

“I suggest you learn a name for it and how to use it besides just offering it up for him to use. In most manly circles, she’s called a cunt, but she’s got plenty of other pet names. Would you care to hear some?”

“You are a disgusting rogue and a--”

“And you may thank me for  _ his _ knowing what to do with one.” Joe taps the top of Peeta’s hat in my hands and then curtsies to me. “Learn how to reciprocate. Fast. I’d gladly give you lessons if you need ‘em. You know where to find me. Have a lovely ride, Mrs. Mellark.”

I stand there clutching Peeta’s hat and fuming, heart thundering and body sweating indelicately under my arms as Joe leaves the stables. Then I march to the stall with the fresh cut hay and stare at it. Nothing appears amiss, no one would know from looking at it what happened here yesterday. Even the left behind articles of clothing are not solid proof. We could have easily discarded them as we saw to our mounts and lost track of them. Then I turn and climb the ladder hidden in shadows up to the loft. I move about in the darkness, only marginally relieved when I am unable from any angle to see the stall where Peeta and I made love yesterday.

I can, however, clearly see the post where Peeta had me pinned as we kissed wildly with my skirts hiked up to my hips. Where we were when I begged him to not stop.

I am still caught in the storm of confusion when I hear Peeta’s uneven gait as he enters the stables. “Katniss? Are you here?”

“Yes,” I call out and Peeta’s feet scrape on the floor as he searches for me. I heft a sigh and descend the ladder to meet him. His eyes widen as he sees from whence I came.

“Twould appear we may have had an audience yesterday,” I admit to him. 

“Who?” I tell him, and his brow furrows. “I will speak to him.”

“And say what exactly? Forbid him to gossip? That will only provoke him to reveal all, perhaps even exaggerate.” I mull over some of what Joe said to me and as I do, it occurs to me that perhaps Joe means more to protect Peeta than to do us harm. He did say his interest was in making sure I did not quit our marriage if things became difficult with Peeta’s family. His disgusting suggestions for lessons implied more that he was concerned with my abilities to please Peeta in the marriage bed than anything else. I shake my head as this does not seem to fit either. My own embarrassment and desire to keep my intimate life private may be affecting my perceptions. The more I think on the man’s words, the more of a conundrum they present.

“There is no preventing the gossip, Katniss. Your father found hay in your hair, declared it in front of several witnesses. The entire house would have guessed by now what we did here yesterday.” My cheeks and pride burn with this reminder and I swipe at tears. Peeta takes my hand in his then, and I twine our fingers together. “But as you said...it is expected between a husband and wife. Most will attribute our indiscretion to us being recently married. As for Joe, I can persuade him to cease tormenting you about it. He is accustomed to speaking his mind to me, and I suppose he now assumes that extends to you. I will correct that misunderstanding today.”

“No,” I say surprising even myself. There are my earlier thoughts regarding Joe as Peeta’s only friend beyond myself here, and I cannot deny Peeta confidence in a friend, no matter how questionable I find the man. 

And then I dismiss Joe’s taunts. Peeta is quite right. Father guessed at what transpired between Peeta and I here yesterday based on a few bits of hay in my hair. There were at least a half dozen witnesses to that. With the speed of gossip in a country estate, it stands to reason that Joe was nowhere near the stables yesterday. He very well may have seen nothing nor heard a thing. Not a word he said serves as definitive proof that Peeta and I had an audience yesterday.

I smile at him, pulling my shoulders back as I stand to my full height, although it is not so imposing. With that small change in my demeanor, everything changes. I extend my hand with his hat in it.

“There is no need for that. I can handle his words. And...I believe this is yours, husband.” His eyes sweep over me, examining me in my resolve and he smiles right back.

“I suppose it is. I’ve been searching for that.” His words speak of hats yet his eyes speak of something decidedly less mundane.

My body responds, quick as lightning and every bit as scorched.  _ Yes _ . It seems to thunder.  _ Yes, we belong to one another now. Search for me, find me, and let us prove it again. _

He takes the hat and brushes dust from it while my stays seem to have cinched unbearably tight around my ribs. I need to remove them. No, Peeta needs to remove them.  _ Now. Yes, now.  _

Peeta’s eyes meet mine then and he leans over to whisper in my ear. “You are blushing and your breathing is quite laboured, wife. Do your thoughts wander to places that might shock or perhaps titillate?”

I lean towards him as he kisses beneath my ear. A quick flick of his tongue on my sensitive skin makes me gasp and sweat between my thighs.

“I have an insatiable craving to taste you again, my pearl. Tonight, in our bed, I plan to feast between your legs until you are submerged in pleasure and beg me to stop, unable to handle another second.”

I grasp hold of his coat, his words weakening my knees, turning my faint blush into an inferno of need. Perhaps I should take exception to his words. Surely this is no way to speak to a lady, but the thrill they cause, the flood of desire that rushes through me and pulls my body closer to his, is too delicious and impossible to resist. I never much cared for being seen as a lady beyond the societal protection it afforded me and my sister anyways, but who would judge me improper when there are no witnesses? 

If it weren’t for the voices outside the stable that signal my father’s approach, I would drag Peeta into the loft, toss up my own skirts, and demand he make good on his promise this instant instead of waiting.

Oh dear. How am I ever going to accomplish anything now?

I somehow manage to tear myself away from him and move towards the stable entrance, but I dislike the idea of leaving the field of banter with him as the victor. I pause in the sunshine and turn to face him, lifting my head high and smiling. “Or perhaps, husband, it is I who shall have you begging for reprieve tonight.”

I hear him curse and then leave him to mount Cicero as I join my father.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The cart is not the most comfortable ride, but it is the only one of our conveyances that can magane to traverse some of the more rugged roads and trails across the farm. I drive, Peeta rides Cicero beside, and Father keeps up a steady stream of conversation and questions that Peeta and I take turns answering. More than once, I catch my father watching me closely. 

When we reach the southeast hill where several workers already make preparations for the harvest, surveying the crops and determining work rotations, Father makes a request that presents a small problem.

“I wish to speak to them,” he waves towards the workers. They are too far afield to hear a shout, and also for Father to reach them on foot. The cart and horses would cause too much damage to the crops. Peeta’s gaze swings between us twice and then he directs Cicero down one of the rows, the waving blades of our vetiver crop brushing his knees as he rides towards them.

“Have I a blemish on my face, father?” I ask when Peeta is out of earshot.

“Not at all. In fact, if pressed to describe your demeanor today, I would call you radiant.” I turn towards him and take in the strange glow in his eyes. “Love becomes you, my daughter.”

“I do not--” I stop the words and nearly choke on them as Father inclines his head to gaze at me beneath my bonnet.

“Perhaps not yet. But Firecracker...he does.” I shake my head in denial and change the conversation.

“It will be time to harvest the eastern fields as well soon. I was thinking perhaps of planting winter crops in the fields we left fallow this summer. They should be recovered. Most of them have already gone to weeds.”

“You can avoid discussing it now, Katniss, but eventually it will be said and you will have to face what it means.”

“You’ve known him less than a day. How could you possibly believe that Peeta loves me?” Even as I say those three words,  _ Peeta loves me _ , my chest and my entire being lightens, as though I might float right up to the sky. I tighten my grip on the reins to prevent that from happening. I acknowledged a willingness to bear children with him last night but it does not follow that I love him.

“I lost an arm, not an eye,” Father says. “Tell me, can you imagine this farm without him?”

I remain silent, eyes fixed on my husband’s back as he speaks to the workers. One of them laughs and the group begins to move towards us. No I cannot. I already admitted that to myself as well.

“It will not matter,” I remind my father and he grunts in displeasure.

“I mean to take care of that. I am still formulating plans and would like to test the waters first before setting anything in motion. I would have you compose a letter to Mr. Hawthorne today. As long as it bears my signature, I believe that should be sufficient to convince him of my improved health.”

“One can only hope so,” I say as Cicero walks backwards down the row, Peeta turned in the saddle to see where his horse steps and to guide him.

“Magnificent animal. I should like to speak with your husband and his stable man as well about training Jax with a few new tricks.”

“Mother will be quite angry with me if we overfill your day,” I remind him and he chuckles.

“She worries after me too much.”

“Only because she loves you.”

Cicero’s hoof finds a rut in the soil then and he loses his footing. I gasp and stand in the cart as Peeta gives some sort of command through the reins. Cicero recovers and a moment later, I drop into my seat, hands shaking a ridiculous amount. 

“Who worries now?” my father mutters as Peeta and the workers finally reach us. 

“I was concerned he might trample the crops. We’ve precious little of the vetiver and it is in high demand already,” I say and glower at my father for his suggestion. He is trying not to smile, I can tell. It may be several months since we have spoken like this and yet I can still read his expressions.

I am unable to follow the conversation with the workers, too lost in a fog and an exaggerated fear over Peeta’s horse nearly stumbling. But that does not mean that I love him.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

It is near tea time when I am finally able to carve out time alone with Madge, and then only because Mother insists that Father rest before tea. He is eager to return to his former life, and while I can quite understand that, I feel as though I have not ceased moving since waking. He must be tired and so I am grateful for Mother’s insistence.

I freshen up, change my dress, and scurry down the hall to Madge’s room, knocking lightly and then slipping inside when she calls “Enter.”

“Finally!” I sigh. “Have you a moment to talk?”

“Of course,” she says. I shut the door and she smiles at me as I throw myself onto her bed. “You will wrinkle your tea dress!”

“Oh who cares,” I mutter and kick off my slippers. “I am married. There is no one left to impress with my dress. Peeta knows what I am.”

“A mess?” Madge asks with a chuckle. “You’ve a dirt smudge on your neck.”

I tilt my head so that she can assist in scrubbing it off. Her brow furrows and she scrubs more harshly. I wince.

“Oh.” Her eyes suddenly widen as she withdraws her hand. You may want to consider a dress with a higher neckline.”

“What is it?” I ask.

“Not dirt,” she murmurs and lifts one eyebrow at me. “So is this glow that you are wearing about today due to your father’s revival or something more...scintillating?”

I wish I could say that I hold my secrets, but I do not. I blush at the word  _ scintillating  _ and decide it is perfect. Then I make a ridiculously girly sound and shake my head, the words bursting out of me as I tell her about our ride to the lake, the way he held me as I wept. I tell her of our time in the stables...and last night...and the second time last night. I tell her about the drawings and Joe’s claim to have witnessed our love making. She scowls for a moment until I explain that I am convinced Joe is lying about that. Our heads bend together as we lay sprawled on her bed, sharing our secrets and our joys. I tell her about Father believing Peeta to be in love with me and how I am as yet uncertain how I feel.

“I care for him. A great deal, and I do not wish to see harm befall him....I cannot imagine Everdeen without him and when I try… He is precious to me,” I finally settle on that and Madge smiles beautifically.

“I am happy for you, Katniss. Truly happy. Oh you’ve no idea the weight this relieves, knowing for certain I did not fail you completely in Capitol,” she says.

“Not in the least,” I sigh and then sit up as a thought occurs to me, along the lines of my discussion with Peeta last night. “What if I am already with child?”

“Well it is a possibility,” Madge says, sitting up with me and covering my hand with hers. “Would that please you?”

“It would,” I whisper, once more imagining the parcel of children as I did last night. The effect of my imaginings is still the same.

“Being a mother changes everything in your life.”

“Being married has changed everything in my life,” I say with a wry laugh. “Why not add another upheaval to the equation? Now I wish that it were true. Would you help me, Madge? When the time comes?”

“Of course I would,” she promises. “You will have your mother, Prim, and me, all here to help you. You likely will not know for a month or more, even then it is risky to claim to be with child. I would wait at least two or three to be certain.”

I sigh again and lean my shoulder against Madge’s. “Would you have another if you could?”

“I would,” Madge says with a soft smile that quickly turns dark. “But I do not believe that is in my future. I would need a father for my child first.”

I open my mouth to comfort her, to insist that she could now take advantage of her freedom to find love, to find a marriage like mine if she so wished it. There would be dozens of suitors clamoring for her, I’ve no doubt of it. Before I can reassure her, the darkness passes and she smiles at me.

“No matter. I shall give almost all of my love to Maysilee and be quite content with my lot.”

“Almost all of your love?”

“Well I shall need to save something for my adorable godchildren, as there are certain to be many if last night is any indication. I am thinking at least four. Two boys, two girls would be nice, don’t you think, Katniss?” I laugh and we spend the remainder of our time sharing confidences until it is time to go downstairs to tea.

“Oh that reminds me,” Madge says with a rueful look. “Does your mother still prescribe that herbal tea? The one to lessen the pain of your monthlies?”

“Oh Madge. You should have said something. She does and we shall be sure to order some from the kitchen after tea...unless you need it now?”

“Oh no, not now. I would hate to have to explain my different tea to your husband. How awkward.” I chuckle at this and we loop our arms together as we leave her room.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

One glorious day leads into another. Then into weeks. The bright blue sky and the warm sun watch as we harvest our late summer crops. Father slowly regains his strength and dexterity with only one hand. We spend several hours across a week in the woods as he learns to rest the barrel of a rifle on his truncated arm, hold the weapon slightly differently. His aim will need some improvement, but already we see some success.

We strike a regular correspondence between Father and Mr. Gale Hawthorne, who insists he will be available in spring to visit and discuss alternate terms for succession of the lands. Haymitch writes to Father as well as to me, his letters full of sarcasm and observations of society, a few noted jabs at my former fiance. Most important and perhaps most disappointing are his sentences or two at that end, indicating that he has made little progress in finding Nancy Thackeray. His words describe a woman who moved often from one locale to another after leaving Peeta in the care of the Mellark family, one employer to the next, constantly on the move, altering her name. The only thing tying all of the leads together is that Nancy apparently had red hair, a detail that is difficult to forget or to ignore. I urge Haymitch to continue looking, unprepared to give up the search just yet.

There are moments that try the patience as Father recuperates, but either Mother or Peeta and sometimes Prim are usually able to smooth any ruffled feathers. One night, as Father bemoans the expenses of perhaps hiring another servant to assist him, and the modifications to the menus and the house to accommodate him along with their expenses, Peeta somehow finds the perfect thing to say.

“We may be adding accommodations to the bathing room, but that is a one time expense,” my mother reminds my father. He continues to complain and it is Peeta who, without looking up from his chess pieces manages to deliver.

“Think of the coin you will save on your tailor bills now that you need only one full sleeve and one glove. Less fabric and thread, fewer buttons...over several years that will add up to an appreciable amount. That should cover the bathing accommodations.”

For a moment after he says this, we are all quiet, waiting for an outburst. Instead my father laughs and claps Peeta on the shoulder with his good hand.

“Tis a shame you could not do the same with your trousers and boots,” my father offers and Peeta smiles, glances at me, I think perhaps to ensure my approval. 

That night, I wait beneath the covers of our bed as Peeta prepares for sleep. My breathing ragged and my nails digging furrowed rows into my palms. The night is overly warm and he opens the window to allow the fragrant scents of the orchard and the breeze to relieve our room of some of the heat. The scents and tickle of breeze only heighten the sensations as I urge him to lay down and relax.

Only I’ve no plans to relax as of yet, and Peeta seems in accord with my thoughts. He returns my kisses fervently. When my lips wander down his body, his hands caress over my shoulders and arms, my hair as he then holds it out of my way and murmurs to me. His voice grows more urgent as he realises my intent, his words insisting that there is no need, but I am determined. 

When he sees that I shall not be deterred, his hands guide and his words encourage. Until he can no longer speak save for gasping moans. His face contorts with ecstasy as his hands cradle my head, his fingers gentle. Until his release is upon him and he tears me from him, practically tossing me aside. I know a moment of annoyance as he grasps himself, but his eyes remain fixed on me as I watch him caught in pleasure.

After it passes, I sweep my gaze over him, his flushed body painted with his own release, his chest heaving, one hand gripping my thigh and one holding himself. I smile then and tuck my knees to my chest.

“So would you say that I am a quick study?” I say and he laughs. Then he grasps my ankle and I scream as he pulls me towards him. Towards his mouth and the pleasure that awaits me. 

Slowly, we grow into a family, all of us. The kiss of summer fades and turns to the nip of autumn. My father returns to his normal self as much as possible. It helps when I tell him of our project with the plant book and Peeta shows him several of the pages. A wealth of knowledge pours from my father’s mind after that, expanding the book to almost double its thickness in the space of a few weeks. My mother is finally able to focus enough to add her wealth of knowledge as well, and it truly becomes a family project.

It is not long before Father begins to treat Peeta as a valued member of our family, respecting his thoughts and seeking his counsel, at first about the loss of limb but gradually about other subjects as well. I soon find that where Father would request counsel with me, he now asks for Peeta’s presence as well. Strangely enough, I do not feel neglected nor ignored by Father. His inclusion of Peeta does not cause an exclusion of myself.

My mother, Prim, Madge, and many of the women of Everdeen with a talent for embroidery have been hard at work creating decorative pouches for several of the sachets and restorative creams we will sell to our more wealthy patrons. Maysilee blossoms and begins to learn to seat her own pony under the direction of a surprising tutor… Joe. Madge and Peeta can both usually be found observing the lessons, keeping careful watch.

Peeta and I take longer rides together, enjoying the cool crisp air. On one particularly memorable day, when the trees bear their bright autumn foliage yet the weather has turned warm for a day, we linger at the lake. When we return, Joe eyes the dirt stains on my skirt, my unkempt hair and my hat that I no longer wear but carry in my hand. I blush under his scrutiny but lift my chin in defiance. There is no shame in desiring my husband. In fact I would count us as fortunate and Joe as perhaps jealous. At the least, he should be satisfied that Peeta is satisfied, if his claims that day in the stable are true.

At night, well perhaps night has become my favourite time of day, when Peeta and I at last have reliable time to ourselves, just the two of us with no one intruding or expecting us soon. We exchange the chairs in the small sitting area of our rooms with a more intimate sofa. Many of the night hours are spent with Peeta drawing, my head in his lap as I recline on the sofa and read. Others find us seated close together, my legs and skirts draped over his as we talk of so many things.

Now that he sleeps beside me nightly rather than in a chair, his slumber is much deeper and more restful, although I wonder if our vigorous night time activities, as Madge once referred to them, has helped with that as well.

Perhaps the best part of this development in our relationship is how it has opened an entirely new aspect of our daytime interactions. No more flinching and avoiding one another. Our intimacy now layered, I find it easier to read his moods and detect small indicators that reveal his thoughts and feelings to me. I do not claim the ability to read his mind, but rather I feel that we now know one another in a way that is both real and profound. And Peeta is now able to do the same, as it often seems that he anticipates my desires or knows precisely what I need. 

It helps that he has ceased neglecting his own needs as well. There are very few days now when he limps to bed thanks to the new sleeves and padding I have fashioned for him as well as my insistence on caring for every sore and blister at the end of each day, the application of a healing herbal powder to reduce chafing every morning before he attaches his leg. 

Since he no longer seems given to midnight roaming, Peeta has taken to baking in the mornings, rising before me to do so and charming the kitchen staff into adoration of him while he is at it.

There are nights, however, when the horrors of our pasts rise up to threaten us. But we manage the darkness together, wrapped in one another’s arms. I listen as he recounts scenes that make my fingers tremble while I trail them through his hair, but I come to understand the bitter darkness of those old drawings in his sketchbook. I wake from my own nightmares every so often, crying and calling out for my sister to escape the flames. Or for my father to get up from his fall off his horse. But Peeta’s arms are there to comfort me, his lips to remind me that Prim and my father are both safe. On the worst nights, he will walk with me to assure myself of Prim’s safety at least. Others, his embrace and soothing words are comfort enough. And still others I need a different kind of comfort, a different kind of fire, and Peeta is always gentle and loving with me on those nights.

Still other nights — oh God in heaven so many nights hold such joy and pleasure I can barely describe. We learn each other until even in this act of love and marriage, we seem to move as one, to anticipate the needs and desires of one another as we find release, completion, satisfaction that permeates to the bones and deeper to the soul in one another’s arms. Rapture is too ordinary a word for what we share in the deep recesses of our bed. 

And in the mornings...in the mornings there will be a new drawing for me in the sketchbook that resides in my bedside table. Some are romantic, some are depictions of me in ordinary moments. Others are landscape studies of Everdeen, still lifes of flowers in the garden, the meadows...fruits hanging heavy in the orchards. Others are funny drawings of our family with observations of the idiosyncrasies of human life. All of them carry a short note and all of them are precious to me.

Peeta has become not simply my ally and partner, my husband, but my dear friend  _ and _ my lover. 

Harvest draws to a close, although the work is nowhere near done. Herbs and flowers and grains are processed, dried, or prepared for sale. Peeta visits me in the drying shed one afternoon as I examine hanging blades of vetiver. We risk discovery, and yet that does not stop me from seeking the pleasure I crave in his arms, my legs wrapped about his waist, booted feet planted on the wall behind him in the small space as he holds me aloft and brings me to sweet release. 

After our encounter that day, I ensure he always has a bar of soap and a cream for his face after shaving that are both scented with vetiver. It is not native to our land, but grows quite well in small patches where the soil is overly moist for some of our other crops. I almost refuse to sell it after that day, despite the high demand for it, wanting to reserve the scent for Peeta alone. As it is, my body perks awake every time I catch the scent of it on Peeta’s skin.

In the evenings, we engage in pleasant activities as a family — my parents, my sister, my dear friend the former countess, my husband and I. On nights such as this one, when we all wish a little quiet, my father and Peeta sometimes play chess together, these two men whom I love so dearly.

— Love? I peer over the top edge of my book to watch their game. Haymitch observes as well, having already claimed the victor of this match as an opponent in the next match. Today saw the first bitter wind signifying autumn’s shift to winter. Tomorrow shall begin the Harvest Festival. Haymitch and Effie have come to visit, and as all preparations for the festival are done, we are now enjoying a quiet evening with a cheering fire in the grate. Prim writes to Mr. Rory Hawthorne. Mother and Effie make plans for Prim’s season that we have all decided on. Madge works on some embroidery. And I… I am apparently having an epiphany. 

Love. Could such a thing be possible, I wonder as I watch Peeta speak a few words that make my father laugh. He smiles and my pulse flutters in my breast. It is not the first time the four lettered word has loomed large in my mind, uttered by others and now echoing in my head and my heart. A soothing calm washes over me as I watch the scene across the room. It blooms out to the edges of my mind and wraps my heart in its warm folds as Peeta’s gaze meets mine. The moment we share seems infinite.

He smiles at me before he returns his attentions to the game in front of him. Later tonight, we will be curled together in our bed for warmth, for comfort, sharing mundane details and soft whispers as we drift into sleep. There is no sweeping romance or fairy tale, only an ordinary life before us. Years upon years of days like this one. Family, hearth, home, harvest and planting. 

And I would not wish it differently.

Yes, love. I can now recognize it for what it is, the gentle need to protect and see to the happiness of someone other than myself. The desire to have him near. While Peeta has most certainly become an important member of my family and my friend, I do not love him precisely as I love my parents or my sister, nor the way that I love Madge. There is the complication of what occurs in our bed at night, a physical sort of connection between Peeta and I that I feel even now as he lifts his gaze to meet mine once more. My mind stumbles through attempting to sort and understand, yet I’ve no luck in the matter.

I’ve no luck even later that night as I cling to him for something solid as the world seems to shift unendingly around us, his body moving over mine and our limbs embracing as he murmurs soft words to me. I cry out with my release, burying my face in the side of his neck to stifle the sound and the myriad of feelings that all demand my attention, my words. I am grateful for the darkness as a few stray tears leak from my eyes and Peeta continues to thrust, claiming his own release with a quiet gasp of my name.

Then it happens. The thing I have been warned of. The thing that I cannot ignore. He holds me afterwards, fingers caressing delicately over me and his lips gentle on my brow as I drift down into slumber.

“I love you, Katniss.” 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

It is still mostly dark when I wake and the sheets beside me still carry a small amount of lingering warmth. Peeta cannot have been up for long. I sit up and stretch, pulling blankets closer around me as I reach across the bed to the sketchbook on his pillow.

His words last night felt more like a dream than the truth. Perhaps I dreamt them up, and I open the sketchbook hoping for answers. As I find today’s drawing, I smile, nearly laugh. Today it is one of the silly drawings.

The words  _ What if…  _ Penciled across the top and then a picture of Peeta laying in mud, filthy and looking quite put upon. I am drawn sitting on his back as though he were a sofa, my dress mudstained and my hat drooping with rain. Clearly I am chastising him as Cicero and Sagittaria both look on in disgust at their riders’ folly. ... _ I had dismounted  _ written across the bottom corner.

I hold the book to my chest for a moment, as though by holding it to my heart I might absorb the love and care the artist himself has bestowed upon these drawings. It is a fanciful thought and yet I wallow in it, a sudden melancholy seeping through me that I cannot account for as I return the book to its drawer. Some women hold letters from their lovers precious. I hold these drawings from mine dear to my heart.

It is as I am dressing that I finally acknowledge the source of my melancholy. I had hoped he would wake me with his lips this morning, rousing more than just my mind, so that we might enjoy a few stolen moments in our bed before beginning the day. He has sometimes done this in the past few months, as have I. In truth, our morning love has been some of the more consuming times together, if only because their hurried nature almost necessitates a frantic sort of passion. It seems a fitting thing to do the morning after he had declared his love for me, if he did at all, and perhaps that is my answer. A man who declared his love in the night would not run from the bed and leave a silly drawing for his love, now would he? Had he truly made such a declaration, he would have been here this morning, eager to prove the depths of his devotion or to hear me return the sentiment.

But what would I know. Before Peeta, I had never been in love before.

— and there it is again. As I enter the breakfast room and Maysilee leaps up from Peeta’s knee to greet me, and Peeta’s brilliant smile sends a shock of heat down to my toes, I am embraced with realisation.

Of course I love him. How could I not?

****


	18. Chapter 18

The Harvest Festival lasts slightly longer than two weeks and usually provides us with a healthy income to sustain us through winter and well into spring. It is the culmination of three seasons of overlapping plantings, crop maintenance, and harvest. Hours upon hours of work. Everdeen becomes a hive of life with visitors from all across Southeastern Panem and sometimes even further. Booths are set up for the sale of wares and food treats. There are games for the children to play and contests for the adults. Planting the seeds for winter crops in some fields and in others, the bulbs that will weather the winter in soil and hopefully flourish in spring. The tidy sowing of the tidy rows of bulbs or the frantic scattering of winter seed then tilled over into the waiting bosom of the earth carries a festive air in the task, as though we are planting the seeds of hope for the bounty of the present year to carry over into the next. In the evenings, the world comes alive with music and dancing, the lively reels and jigs of country tunes rather than the stuffier songs of the city and high society. Other than spring, it is my favourite time of year.

All through the day, I am occupied with sales and bargaining. Talking with tenants and people who need my attention. Normally my father would handle most of this while I stand beside him. This year, Father is busy dancing with nearly every female in Everdeen, from my mother down to Sae, leaving the bulk of the real work to me. It is heartening to see him so happy, waving away Dr. Aurelius’ concerns and insisting that he has never felt better.

When I mention this to Peeta, who has not left my side all day, he smiles. “Katniss, he is handing Everdeen to you. You have kept it running nearly an entire year. This festival is all due to you. It is your harvest.”

I am not certain how to feel about that and loop my arm through Peeta’s as we watch the festivities. My foot taps to the beat, but I know better than to ask Peeta for a dance, despite my longing to join. I do not wish to cause him discomfort, no matter that I could never feel shame or embarrassment when partnered with him.

As the night winds down, I find that I am exhausted. Once I am changed for sleep and laid out on the sofa in our room, my head resting on Peeta’s thighs as he reads through correspondence he left neglected today. His fingers comb through my hair, mine trace absent patterns on his knee, yet I can tell that something bothers him.

“What news, husband?”

“A friend. From the infantry. He has returned home to troubles. His brother passed, leaving the land to him. It took some time for him to return home and in the absence of a landlord, a large number of the tenants left. He’s in need of hands to help harvest or his wheat crop will be left to die in the fields.”

I pause in my aimless drawing on his knee and consider this. The answer is evident, and I know Peeta has already reached the same conclusion, much as we both dislike it. “How far?”

“The southern half of East Panem. With a hard day of riding Cicero, I could be there in a day.”

“You should go,” I say quietly.

“And miss the festival? Katniss, I do not wish to leave you.” I sit up then, to face him, maintaining as much of a stoic expression as I can manage.

“Nor do I wish you to leave. However,” I say before he can argue. “We will be quite fine here. The Harvest Festival is perhaps the easiest part of running Everdeen, and you will regret not going to his aid if you remain.”

Peeta tilts his head as he examines me and I smile, overcome with affection for my husband. I trace the scars on his face and then lean forward to kiss the edge of them, down along his jaw. “You never told me how you came by these marks.”

“Musket fired too close to the ground while I was seeing to a wounded drummer. Had to move us both to safety before I could continue, and you know what burning clothes stuck to skin can cause.”

“Hm,” I kiss down his throat, already plotting how to persuade him to take me to bed. “When will you leave to help your friend?”

“Tomorrow, I should think,” he says, the anguish in his voice a mirror of the pain in my heart. “He sounds in desperate need.”

“You should offer additional work and pay to several of our tenants. Take extra hands with you.”

“If that is alright with you.”

“Ask for volunteers. How long will you be gone?”

“I will not be gone longer than two weeks, I should think.”

“Then I shall see you back here before the end of the festival.”

“Yes,” he gasps as I shift to straddle him and press my body into his to feel how aroused he is already.

“Is that a promise, husband?”

“It is a promise, wife.”

“Promise me you will dance with me when you return? Just once, Peeta. It can be a slow tune.”

“Katniss,” he groans as I sink my teeth into his shoulder. He curses and promises me a dance.

My mind grasps onto the thought that now would be the perfect time to say it. To tell Peeta of my thoughts just this morning. Three such simple words that he uttered in the dark as though they were no more heavy than an exhale. But did he? Or did I dream the soft sigh of his love against my brow? I do not know, I was barely awake. I bite my tongue and kiss him instead, wild and uninhibited.

Peeta gathers me in his arms then, holding me close to his chest as he heaves us off the sofa and carries me across the room to our bed. I whine slightly, perturbed at being moved, but as he lays me on our mattress, I grasp hold of him and make demands.

As always, he readily gives me what I want. What I need. Clothes and wooden leg discarded on the floor. Whispered words and pleas, and a dance in the darkness. For what is intercourse but a series of bodily movements in harmony...a dance. I demand that he give me more and the creaking of our bed gives evidence to the desperate meeting of our bodies, almost violent in our need.

His hand clenches in my hair, twisting it around his fist, pulling tight against my scalp and bending my body. His moans roll over my skin as he plunges into me again and again. The short bursts of pain in my scalp cause strange ripples of pleasure that overwhelm and steal my breath. He is holding back, waiting for me to succumb first. It is this knowledge combined with the sound of my name on his lips, a desperate breath of utter longing, that tips me over the edge into blissful, rapturous oblivion.

The rest of the world falls away to nothing as I revel in my release, in the feel of Peeta’s triumphant shout against my neck before he begins to thrust madly. I wonder for one second if we might break the bed and then he stops, his back arched and his head thrown back in exquisite relief, his abdomen clenching and his fingers tight in my hair.

The way he holds me after provides such an exquisite contrast. So perfectly gentle and soothing. His whispers are more effective in drawing me down into deep slumber than a lullaby, and yet...and yet…

My dreams that night are wild and reckless. A man cloaked in shadows and moonlight illuminating only part of his face, unending pleasure stemming from his touch. He takes pleasure from me like an animal, on all fours with his fingers digging into soft flesh, mine holding tight to bed linens and my throat dry with screams of pleasure I cannot voice for fear of waking the whole house. Whatever he takes from me, he gives back tenfold. The crazed thrusting of uncontrollable lust reaching deep inside me to places I’d never known a man could touch.

Then he takes me with his mouth, my legs splayed wide, immodest and desperate, pinned to our bed beneath his strong hands. The delicate scrape of his tongue on me, marking me. Branding me as his as I shatter again and again. And again. It is as though he is determined to ensure that I cannot forget him in his absence. 

I am certain my legs have become useless until he settles me on top of him and I become the one crazed and desperate in motion. I long to tell him that I could never forget him. He has rooted himself in my heart, seared himself beneath my skin where I could no more remove my love for him than I can my own scars. But speech proves impossible for me.

Yet, in the moments when I am coherent enough to recognise the blue eyes watching me as I dance over his body with abandon, I capture the words he moans to me in his ecstasy and hold them close to my heart.

_ Yours.  _

_ I am yours, Katniss.  _

_ Yours, yours, yours.  _

_ Everything I am is yours.  _

_ Always.  _

And... 

_ I love you. _

_ … I love you so...desperately...deeply... _

I reach a final, tremendous peak with those words floating in the sultry air around us and then dreams yield their hold to the dark, blissful oblivion of restful, dreamless slumber. 

In the morning, I am alone. The window shut against a driving autumn rain, and a single orange flower left for me atop of Peeta’s sketchbook, tied to it with a green ribbon. I haven’t the heart to look at the drawing he left me just yet, knowing that there will be no more for some time. 

Then the evidence that my dreams last night were far more real than they were imagined begins to accumulate. My wild hair and the nearly wrecked state of the linens on our bed. The teeth and suction marks on my shoulders and breasts and even the back of my neck, the throbbing ache between my thighs. The ten round bruises on my hips where Peeta would have grasped hold of me as he loved me from behind, savage and wild and beautiful. Another set on my thighs where he would have held my legs secure to the bed while he made love to me with his mouth, again and again. My knees weaken at the very thought of it. 

Worst of all, though, is the hollow feeling in my breast as I rise and move to the window and know. Peeta’s gone. He left before I could tell him that I love him too. How stupid of me not to reciprocate the words when he spoke them last night.

I rest my forehead on the cool glass, holding the sheet from our bed wrapped around me, my shoulders and my feet bare, hair a wild tangle down my back until Mary finds me like that.

“Mrs. Mellark?” she says my name like a question and I lift my chin. I am not some sniveling, weak willed, lovesick schoolgirl. And I will not act like one.

Peeta will return within the fortnight. I can tell him then. He promised me he would, and if I know one thing about my husband it is that he can be trusted to keep his promises.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

“This is good,” I say as my eyes skim over the written out history. It is far more thorough than I could have hoped. “Could she have returned to any of these places?”

“It is unlikely. She seems to have stayed for as long as she could,” Haymitch says and taps one line near the bottom. My cheeks burn as I realise what he is trying to tell me without saying it.

“Oh no. The poor thing.” I glance up at my uncle as he fixes me in place with a penetrating gaze.

“You are not appalled?”

“I am only appalled at the lengths women must sometimes go to in order to feed and house both themselves and the ones they love,” I say as I fold the pages of parchment together. “There are three years missing yet in your history for her.”

“I have some leads to fill that hole. I shall keep looking...unless you wish to stop. We may only find worse things than this”

“No,” I say and glance briefly over the crowd that has gathered for the afternoon games. The rain did not last long enough to force a cancellation of the festivities. The muddy fields have in fact drawn more people, it seems. Those eager for the fresh air and the tempting scents of meat pies on the cool autumn breeze. Children play, ignoring parental sighs that they will need another bath if they are not careful.

“No,” I repeat to Haymitch. “I want to find her, if she still lives. And the child.”

Haymitch scoffs at this and I scowl at him. “You think that wise?”

“You think Peeta would want to leave his half sister to suffer in an orphanage somewhere? Or worse?”

“There is no knowing who the child’s father is, nor what she has grown to become. She would be nearly eight by now.”

“I am aware of that.”

“It is also possible that your husband already knows of her existence and chose to do nothing…”

My neck heats as I consider the possibility but then I shake my head. “No. He would not. If he knows, then he has been searching for her as well. Which leads me to believe he does not know.”

“You will not be able to keep your search secret from him much longer if you are determined to save them both,” Haymitch says with uncharacteristic gentleness.

“Perhaps combining our efforts will produce faster results then. When he returns, can you provide him with your contacts?” Haymitch grunts, but he nods in agreement.

I wonder how on earth I am supposed to explain to Peeta that he has a sister, and that I already plan on adopting her, if possible. She belongs with her family, and if she has none now, then her family is here at Everdeen. And how am I to explain the existence of the child without shattering his heart? How to tell him that his mother was reduced to prostitution for a number of years. My heart aches at the thought of it and it is the only reason that I hope he already found this piece of his mother’s journey, so that I will not be the one breaking his heart.

The child will be easier to locate than the mother, it seems, and so I tell Haymitch to focus on that for now. “But we are not conceding defeat on finding Nancy, do you understand?”

“I understand completely,” Haymitch tells me with a strange look in his eyes. Before I can summon a retort, my sister calls for me.

“Katniss, I need to speak with you.”

“Can it wait?” I ask as I notice the massive hay bales being rolled in for the next contest. I am meant to judge who is able to secure and lift their bale the fastest. It occurs to me that it is a shame Peeta is missing this particular contest. With the strength in his arms, he would excel at a contest such as this.

“No it cannot wait,” Prim insists.

I sigh and motion for her to speak. I am developing a headache. Peeta has been gone four days already with no word from him, Haymitch has brought me both good news and complications in our search, and Maysilee is recovering from a slight fever. While the festival at least is a resounding success, it still leaves me drained. At the end of the day, I toss and turn, unable to find sleep despite my fatigue. The empty space in my bed taunts me with unspoken words and fears I cannot explain. The drawing he left me was of me as I slept, the words along the bottom of the page nearly bringing tears to my eyes.

_ Leaving you is near impossible, and so I go while you still sleep. Had you opened your eyes before I left, and looked at me as you have done these past days, I might never muster the will to depart. Yours always, ~ P ~ _

“I’ve had a letter from Rory,” Prim’s words intrude on my musings.

“Are we on a given name basis with him now then?” I ask, a little testy. She frowns at me and then I notice her quivering lip.

“I do not know anymore. I told him of your plans to take me to Capitol for a season and now I fear he is withdrawing his interest!”

“Mother and Father agreed to the season as well. Pester them about this,” I mutter and she huffs angrily.

“They only agreed because you insisted! It’s not my fault you regret how your husband hunt turned out. Do you know what Rory said to me about this whole season and more suitors for me fiasco?”

“I haven’t the faintest idea.”

“Perhaps that is for the best,” she says and I nod.

“If he cannot handle the competition for your hand then his affections are not strong enough to last.” The competitors for the game have taken their places and I give the signal to begin.

Prim chokes on a sob. “I don’t want him to have competition! I want to marry him! And you’ve frightened him off!”

“Prim,” I say as I turn to her and her watery eyes slice through me. I cannot stand to see her in pain. Perhaps this season idea was a poor decision, but she agreed to it, seemed eager even until now.

“All because you’re not in love with your husband! That does not mean that I will be miserable with my choice, nor do you need to  _ make _ me miserable with mine! He was going to propose on his next visit, I am sure of it, and now he won’t!” She spins on her heel then, headed straight for the floor as bales of hay slowly rise.

“Prim!” I shout after her but she does not respond.

There’s a shout of warning and then one of the bales descends, the rope sliding through grasping hands and more yells fill the air. I run for her but I am too far away. Joe reaches her first, shoving Prim out of the way of the hay before it crashes to the ground. It disintegrates in a fragrant cloud. Several hands grasp hold of the rope at the same time and heave. With no weight, the hook swings free and wild.

A warning lodges in my throat as it flies up towards Joe and slices him straight up his spine.

He shouts and falls to the ground beside Prim as pandemonium breaks loose. Prim reaches for Joe, crying out apologies and attempting to see to his wound. Joe begins to screech.

“Hands off, witch! Devil take you and your herbs! I’ll not let you drag me to hell!” 

Prim retreats as I glower at the man’s display. Everyone steps back from him as he holds his torn jacket and shirt together and waves a bloody hand at us to keep us distant. He raves about witches and sorcery. We are all too stunned to know what to do. 

Madge pushes her way through the crowd and slaps Joe across the face. “Cease, man! I am no witch. Come with me and stop making a fuss!”

She grabs Joe by the arm and drags him away. He goes, surprisingly docile. I hurry to Prim’s side, although Mother and Father are already with her.

“I am fine,” she insists, taking their help to stand. The crowd around us whispers and wavers in shock and uncertainty. “But Joe…”

I squeeze Prim’s hand. “I will assist Madge.”

I scurry to follow them, leaving Prim with Father and Mother seeing to her. I pass by Haymitch as he tries to calm a near hysterical Effie and I leave him to it. Assured of Prim’s well being, I care for nothing but my husband’s injured friend — a friend who just saved my sister’s life, although I am certain he despises me.

I am able to follow their trail, a handprint left here and there that leads me to the house, to the bathing room. I fetch Mother’s healing kit along the way and enter the room, gasping and nearly dropping the basket as I take in the sight before me.

“Oh wonderful. Kitten has decided to join us,” Joe snarls as I stare at him…or rather…  _ her _ ...

Torn, bloody bindings and clothes litter the floor. Joe sits on the bench beside the tub, facing me, stripped bare to the waist. Madge bends over her back, her eyes wide as she stares at me.

“Katniss… shut the door,” she says in a wavering voice. I do so, too shocked to do differently. I lock it for good measure and gape, my mind grasping at connections and hints that line up with dizzying speed.

“You… you…”

“I have breasts,” Joe states. “Quite nice ones, too.” She fondles them for a second and smirks at me. “I can understand you gaping at them. I have all of the other baggage that comes with being a woman in this world as well. Would you care to see?”

“I…” I have no idea what to say.

“I could use your help, Katniss.” Madge’s words bring me to my senses. “I’m quite good at sewing but have never sewn human flesh and… I do not know what herbs we will need.”

“Are you certain your patient will accept such witchcraft?” I ask and Joe gasps with pain and shuts her eyes for a moment before leveling me with a fierce look.

“I meant no insult to your sister. She has been nothing but kind to me. And I will… I will apologize to her later. But I could not let them discover me in such a public manner.”

“You had better apologize. You caused a shameful scene,” Madge scolds and Joe turns slightly to glare at her.

“And you slapped me, your highness!”

“I needed to get you out of there before you revealed yourself!”

“You knew?” I ask Madge and she sighs.

“Katniss, please,” she says again instead of responding to my accusation. “I will explain later. Right now I truly need your help. I am quite out of my depth here.” 

I move to Madge’s side and help her clean the wound, taking too much pleasure in Joe’s muffled grunts as we warn her of the coming pain before we pour the spirits to kill infections on her opened skin. She releases a string of colourful curses that has both Madge and I sharing a glance.

“For shame, Mr. Mason! Such foul language in front of ladies,” I say in my most scandalized tone. Joe hangs her head and shakes it.

“ _ Ladies _ ,” she sneers and then laughs. It is precisely the reaction I was hoping for, distracting Joe from the pain as Madge carefully stitches her ragged flesh back together. “Neither of you count as  _ ladies _ by any conventional definition and well you both know it. Your highness with your scandalous affair before your late departed husband was even cold in his grave. And you Kitten, with your insatiable lust, pouncing on your poor husband at every turn, demanding he tussle you in the stables, out in meadows—“

“It was by a lake,” I interject and she scoffs. “If you are going to accuse me, at least ensure that your accusations are correct.”

“As I said… Neither of you are truly  _ ladies _ , only masquerading as one of them.”

Madge and I share another look, colour rising in both of our cheeks. The way Johanna says the word  _ ladies _ makes it sound like it would be more of an insult to actually  _ be _ a lady in her eyes. Madge looks away first when Joe releases another string of curse words.

“Here,” I say, offering my hand to Joe to hold through the pain. She bats it away and I return it to assisting Madge. “So then I assume your given name is not really Joseph…”

“Johanna,” she gasps and then releases more curse words. “My name is Johanna. Jo still works for short. That way, when someone tries to call me Joseph the way her majesty here did, I can tell them no one calls me Joseph. Explains why I don’t readily respond to it, and it’s not a lie.”

Madge’s face reveals nothing. She purses her lips and concentrates on her stitches.

“What is your story then, Jo?” I ask gently. “What leads you to dress as a man and fool everyone around you?”

She laughs sardonically and another stream of expletives makes me blush hot. For a moment, I think perhaps she will not share but then she takes a deep breath and speaks. “Same thing what makes the two of you hide your true natures. Disapproval. My father thought to marry me off to a rector. A man four times my age with two wives already dead in the ground and a belief that there is no ill that cannot be solved by a decent whipping. My dear Mama agreed. She thought the influence of the church was the only —“ More curse words echo off the stone walls and Madge halts her sewing for a moment until Johanna regains some composure. “—The only way to cure me of my evil nature.”

“What makes you so evil? I’ve seen no signs of devil worship about,” I say with a great deal of doubt in my voice. She turns her head to peer at me over one creamy, perfectly shaped shoulder and a sickening feeling fills me as I realise that she is in fact rather beautiful, even with her cropped short hair. A collection of pixie features I took for a boy’s in truth belonging to a lovely young woman perhaps four or five years my senior. She smiles at me and it brings me no comfort.

“My parents discovered that I have as great a thirst for a juicy cunt as I do for a big fat cock.” My face flames with her words but I allow myself no other visible reaction. Her words are meant to shock me. I will not give her the satisfaction. “I never saw the reason why my father and brothers could be so freely promiscuous, could fuck whatever they wanted… women, men, goats… without repercussions, but I was forbidden a single loving affair with a girl I loved.”

“Really, Johanna,” Madge admonishes.

“Allow me some fun, your highness. My back is shredded, I shall have yet another ugly scar now, and unless Kitten here takes pity on me, I might be out of a home within the hour.”

“You are not exactly endearing yourself to her with that kind of talk,” Madge says and then an awful thought occurs to me.

“Does Peeta know?”

“Does Peeta know?” Johanna sneers again and my stomach feels as though I had just jumped from a great height. 

I think of his words… one night of reckless abandon because he felt sorry for himself… surely he wouldn’t then travel with that person as a companion. 

Madge says her name in a warning tone but Johanna fixes me with glittering brown eyes, her gaze unwavering as though she knows the precise direction of my thoughts. 

“Of course Peeta knows. He’s been helping me maintain my ruse for years now. In fact, this is about how he found out. I refused my betrothal and when my dearest parents tried to have me sent to an asylum, I ran away.” She hisses and her next words begin strained then even out.

“I ran away, cut my hair, dressed myself as a boy, and enlisted in the infantry. I was a drummer for them. You know, the ones that beat the cadence to send commands across the fields. I was shot in the leg, and that would not have been a problem, but I panicked. Then some crazed loon took a bayonet to my side while I was attempting to drag myself from the field. I cut the lout’s throat but the damage was done.” More curse words and she smacks her hand on the stone bench.

“Nearly done,” Madge soothes and Johanna takes a few more deep breaths.

“Peeta found me. I told him I’d rather die right there on the field, knowing what he’d discover as soon as he started tending to me… God love the man, he tended to me anyways and barely even blinked. Not even with musket fire around us… a brush fire. An enemy soldier attacking him. He just… sliced the man the way you slaughter a pig then went back to sewing me together enough to move me. He even yelled at another medic who tried to help, sent him to assist the others wounded nearby instead. He stitched me up, and then lied to the doctors. Said the leg wound was the only one. He stopped by the field hospital every day after and saw to the wound on my side himself. When I was healed enough to rejoin the field, another drummer had already taken my place. Peeta convinced the commander to make me a part of the medical team instead.”

“Driving the cart to move the wounded and the dead,” I supply.

Johanna nods, lifts her arm then, and points to a long jagged scar over her ribs, curling beneath her breast. Exceptionally close to the orb. “This is the one Peeta stitched back together.”

I drop my eyes and watch as Madge finishes her stitching.

“He never asked me why. Why would a girl hide as a man and join the infantry. When I asked him why he never asked… he said he assumed I must have a damn good reason and it was none of his business. He trusted that I would tell him if and when I was ready to trust him. No one would willingly subject themselves to such a life unless they were desperate, had no choice, or wished death upon themselves, he said. It is quite cute when he is so naive.”

I wipe my hands clean with a rag and set myself to the task of crushing herbs. 

“So then when he took that sword to his leg…”

“I couldn’t let him die,” Johanna whispers, turning her head just enough for me to see her profile but not enough to look me in the eyes. “I wanted to, because then the only person who could betray my secret and see me returned to my  _ family _ would take my secret to the grave. I would be safe without having to trust in a man. But… I couldn’t. He saved my life, so I saved his.”

“And did you and he…Were you one of the women he…” I trail off, unable to voice the despicable fear choking my throat closed.

“No, Kitten,” Jo says and finally meets my eyes. “I told you he’s a right gentleman. I offered, several times in fact, but he always refused. Said it wasn’t right to take advantage like that when he knew my secret. He saw that knowledge for what it was, something a lesser person would use to control me and so he refused to give even the impression of such control. The damn righteous bastard said he wouldn’t sleep with someone who felt they owed him a debt like that, and that the only reason I was offering was  _ because _ I felt I owed him. Not because I loved him.”

My spine grows stiffer and my motions as I grind the herbs more forceful with every word she speaks. It sounds like something Peeta would say, but I don’t know if I can believe Johanna.

“Don’t tell him I said it… but he was right to refuse me. He’s been the only real friend I’ve had in years and I am glad he wouldn’t allow me to ruin that,” Johanna says and then she grins. “But he wasn’t above listening to me every night I got drunk and a little too talkative about all the reasons my father thought I needed divine intervention. All the maids and local girls. The boys I let beneath my skirts. My favorite though was a dairy maid named Portia. Ah she was a sweet treat indeed. And you’ve reaped the benefits of my big mouth, haven’t you, Kitten?”

I mix the herbs with the cream despite the burning on my cheeks. I am at least appeased that I am not healing one of my husband’s former lovers, but the fact that Peeta apparently learned much about pleasing a woman simply by listening to this one aggravates me. I smack the cream onto her back and she startles, once more cursing and glaring at me.

“Is that why you hate me then? Because I have been intimate with him while you were not.”

“That would be too simple, Mrs. Mellark. Give me some credit for having more depth of emotions than a jealous harpy. I despise you because the two of you are free to love one another openly and no one will question or recoil from you for it. No one will accuse you of being unnatural, sinful, or an abomination for having that tussle in the stables or by the lake and wherever else on this green earth the two of you have been when you cannot control yourselves. I despise you because you have a real and extraordinary love right in front of you, and you are too much of a coward to admit it.” I blink at her and she scoffs. 

“I am not a coward.” Madge stares at me as I spread the cream along the stitched seam of Johanna’s back. “But I won’t admit it to you before I say it to him.”

Johanna’s eyes widen, astonished and so feminine in that moment that I wonder how I did not see it before. The curtsies, the things she’s said to me, the way Peeta reminded her on the day we met that a rough serving man cannot just grab a lady and pull her from the mud without her permission...

I turn to Madge to keep Johanna from questioning what I just confessed to her. “You have been awful quiet during all of these revelations. How long have you known?”

“Since the day after your father awakened.”

I am taken back to that day. The stables. The tea.

“The tea for the monthlies was for Johanna,” I say and Madge nods.

“I did not like keeping it from you, Katniss, but I thought it best at the time. Even though Johanna insisted she and Peeta had never been intimate, I feared the truth coming to light just then might ruin what was growing betwixt the two of you.”

“Which begs the question, Kitten...what will you do now?”

I look between the two women and consider the options, all of what has been revealed to me tonight. 

Pulling long strips from the healing kit at my feet, I meet Johanna’s gaze. “Now I will bandage your back. When I am done, you shall return to your dwelling, drink every drop of the tea I am sending with you. You will sleep on your stomach and not disturb or scratch at the bandages. In the morning, Madge and I will tend to your wound. You will only admit either her or myself to see to your care. While I do not believe that my parents would turn you out should they learn the truth, I will not take that risk without your blessing. And once you are healed, you will stop teaching Maysilee to jump side saddle and teach her how to do the thing right. Safely astride. I’ll not see her break her neck over something so foolish as propriety.”

Johanna squints her eyes at me as I speak and then laughs when I am done. “Now I see it, Kitten. I know why he’s so hopelessly in love with you!” 

I ignore this and bandage her back, but I have the strangest sense that I have somehow acquired a new ally.

  
  



	19. Chapter 19

After a restless night, I am dreading breakfast. It feels as though I have lived a lifetime since yesterday, an eon since Peeta left Everdeen. Mary frets over me and how pale I am as she helps dress me. I drag my still tired body down the stairs and into the breakfast room. Madge and I will need to visit Johanna to see to her bandages, and that means I will need a hearty meal to fortify me.

My mind still grapples with the matter of hiding Johanna here at Everdeen and all of the details she revealed to me. A brush fire on the battlefield as Peeta tended to her, a drummer — So then it was while he was caring for Johanna that he was scarred. An enemy soldier attacking them and — 

My stomach revolts unexpectedly and I pause, reaching a hand out to steady myself on a convenient piece of furniture in the hall.

She said that Peeta cut the man the way you slaughter a pig. It should not surprise me, this knowledge that my husband who served in the infantry was required to kill a man. 

Like slaughtering a pig. With no emotion in her voice. I have seen pigs and chickens slaughtered for the table, I have felled deer and other game. It is a cold, emotionless task. It almost need be, otherwise one would starve. With deer, sometimes the arrow or the musket ball is not enough for a kill. I myself have needed to wield a knife to slice a throat. Yet as I attempt to imagine doing so to a man…

I see eyes. Eyes of so many I have called friend, family, love. And I can imagine no further. The one time my father attempted to teach Primrose how to hunt, she cried over the dead animal and begged him to take it home with us, claiming there was still a chance we might save the poor dear. He was still alive, Prim insisted. She could see it in his eyes! My father had closed the rabbit’s eyes and maneuvered my sister away from the sight, holding her and comforting her while I was left to deal with the task of skinning the beast. I can understand her trepidation now.

Then I think of that day in Aunt Effie’s garden, when Peeta drew a knife to withdraw thorns from my palm. The ease with which he wielded it. My head spins and I take a few deep breaths as I remind myself of the rest of what Johanna said. He was tending to a wounded patient and they were attacked. Mayhaps Peeta killed a man, but it would have been done in defense of himself and of her, for surely the other soldier would have killed them both had Peeta not acted swiftly. 

Perhaps it is not the irrefutable knowledge that my husband has killed that upsets me, for I too have killed, albeit for utterly different reasons. They are not the same. Not the same at all. No, I wonder now if what troubles me most is the reconciliation of the gentle man I believe him to be with the callous picture Johanna described. I know my husband. He is no murderer and he is certainly not heartless. How then does he face the killing of another person in such proximity. Surely he must have seen the other man’s eyes? But then the other man must have seen Peeta’s as well.

I think then of the drawings, the way he describes the agony and anguish and guilt of war. Of losing someone in his care… How his drawings draw such focus to the eyes. It stands to reason that he feels a similar mix of terrible emotions in regards to those he was forced to kill. 

The reminder helps calm the churning in my middle, enough that I am able to continue on to the breakfast room. I wonder though at my husband never telling me of this in all his confessions of the night. If I am honest with myself, I am upset that Johanna knows more of him than I. How much of that is owing to my newfound knowledge of her sex, I cannot be certain. It did not concern me much when I thought her a man. She has known him for years, she said, whereas I have only known him months.

Perhaps he sought to protect me from the horrors he has committed, or perhaps it disturbs him enough that he did not wish to speak of it. Perhaps we are simply not to the point where he feels at ease speaking of those moments with me. I resolve to do as he has done. Have patience and trust that he will tell me when he is prepared to trust me with this part of his past.

I sit at table and force some egg down my throat. The room is wretchedly quiet and unusually hot given that I am rather early, likely the first to rise today… until Primrose wanders in.

She halts in the doorway and runs her hands over the bodice of her dress. She is so lovely. Fresh as morning dew and beautiful as the rose for which she was named. Her words last night, however, taint the air between us. 

“Prim—“

“How is Joe?” Our words overlap and I turn my attention to buttering my toast. I am unaccountably famished for the level of queasiness I feel. Food is simple, usually, and so I keep my eyes on that as I speak.

“He will be fine. Madge and I will see to his wounds. He sends his apologies for his harsh words last night.”

“He was in a great deal of pain, no doubt. Sometimes we are more harsh than we intend to be when we are in pain… are we not?” Prim says this softly and I glance over at her as she fills her plate.

“Yes. I suppose sometimes we are.”

“Katniss, I am...I must apologize. My words yesterday—“

“I mean only to protect you. I do not want you to feel that you have settled in your marriage.”

“Have you settled?” she asks, turning to the table with sparks in her eyes.

“At first I thought I did,” I admit to her. “I did not wish to marry at all, I thought. But I was fortunate. It is a great turn of luck that while my hand may have been forced into marriage, I could not have asked for a better husband. I wished for you to be free, as I was not, to choose your husband.”

She makes a strange noise and flounces to the table, sitting with an uncharacteristic lack of grace. “Then why can you not trust me to know my own heart and the strength of Rory’s character?”

“Perhaps because you speak so little of him.”

“You did not wish to hear.”

“I do now, Little Duck.”

Primrose arranges her skirts suddenly, perfectly delicate and ladylike. I smother a smile as I think of what Johanna might say of my sister this morning.

“I am not certain it matters now,” she says forlornly.

“Is that the only thing he said on the matter of your season? That it was for the best?” She nods and sniffles. I sigh to myself. “It is not much to go on. Is it possible he meant only that were you to have a season, it would strengthen your feelings for him, at least the certainty of them. If you are truly meant to be with Rory, then a few suitors would not change this. You’ve not interacted with a great deal of gentlemen.”

Primrose considers this as she begins to eat. “I suppose it is possible. I would need to be careful in my wording when I ask him if that is what he intended.”

“Perhaps consult with Madge on this, as she seems to have a more delicate way with both words and men than I,” I suggest and she nods, seemingly resolved. I ask her again to tell me of him and listen as she speaks. She paints a rather rosy picture of the man, and while I am glad that she seems to have such tender feelings for her suitor, I cannot help but think that he sounds too good to be real. I do not mention that she has drawn most of her conclusions from his letters. Words are fine things and quite important, but it is our deeds and actions that truly make a marriage.

Slowly, the household awakens. Tasks await me, and I leave the breakfast room shortly after Madge and Maysilee enter it. Although, I am pleased when Prim rises to walk out with me. I do not wish strife between us.

A dizziness sweeps over me as we walk and I once more must use the furniture to steady myself. 

“Katniss?” Prim asks as I close my eyes to halt the room from spinning. “Katniss are you unwell?”

“Only tired,” I tell her as she touches me. I draw strength from the contact, although I still feel faint.

“Are you certain you do not wish for me to see to Joe in your stead? You never had much stomach for such things.”

“Nay,” I say and she lifts one brow before leaning close to me.

“You know… I am quite good at keeping secrets.” I stare at her and mull over the weight of her words. Truthfully, her care would be much better for Jo. I could manage, but Prim is a budding, brilliant healer in her own right. The more I think of facing bandages and wounds not yet healed, the worse I feel.

Yet...Johanna has only grudgingly trusted me with her secret. “I have promised to see to him, and he is Peeta’s friend. This task falls to me, Little Duck.”

“Oh very well,” Prim says, and huffs but leans close once more. “At least allow me to make some ginger root tea for you. You look positively green.”

“Green?” I ask and she nods. “Yes, that might be just the thing I need.”

She smiles at this and helps me towards the study. I see to a few tasks and sip the tea when Primrose brings it to me. It does soothe the roiling in my middle. Shortly after the nausea dissipates, so does the feeling of being overheated, just in time for Madge to join me. We gather what supplies we will need, and ride out to the cottage where Jo lives.

“Well I thank you for not having the esteemable Mr. Crane visit me,” Johanna says as she opens the door before moving stiffly back to the bed. 

Her cottage is humble but tidy. A bottle of orange and bergamot scented oil warms by the fire, one of the products of this very farm. Shirts await mending in a basket and a simple breakfast of egg and roll sit half eaten on a platter next to the chair. There are no delicate or personal touches to denote who lives here, save for the wide brimmed hat Johanna usually wears.

“I would not wish his sermons on my worst enemy,” I mutter as Madge directs Johanna to remove her shirt and lay on her stomach.

“I’d wager your ears burn right off when he starts in talking lust and carnal sins. Do those feel aimed at you, Kitten?” I glare at her and Madge hushses her. “S’nothing to be ashamed of. Every man is considered virile for his urges. Why shouldn’t we? How else does one get in the family way?”

“By laying back and just holding on until it’s over,” Madge suggests and Johanna snorts.

“Children are work enough on their own. Making them ought to at least be enjoyable as consolation. I’ve been fortunate in that regard on both ends. Plenty of enjoyment, no children. And you have too, haven’t you, Mrs. Mellark?” I smile at her and saw away at her bandages along the sides. “Hey! Watch it!”

“Oh I am so sorry, Johanna,” I purr and she scowls at me but then starts laughing.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

After we have seen to Johanna and return to Everdeen, the daily post brings happy tidings for both Everdeen sisters.

For Prim, a letter from Mr. Rory Hawthorne, adamantly expressing regrets over his hasty words and clarifying that he only meant that Prim deserves a season and a chance to be certain of whom she wishes to marry.

“A season full of suitors praising you will in no way diminish my affections for you, and I greatly regret that my last may have given the impression of such,” she reads aloud to Madge and I during a quiet moment. “My feelings will hold steady and patient. Although, I confess that I will be among the first in line, begging a dance or calling for tea, lest you forget me in all the attentions sure to be heaped at your toes.”

While I still hold my doubts in regards to Mr. Hawthorne, the letter does much to soothe my fears for my sister.

As for my fears in regards to my own marriage, a letter arrives from Peeta as well to soothe those. I pocket it and save it for a private moment. I barely manage it with the festival still ongoing, the noises of dancing and happy laughter a backdrop as I stand in a quiet spot, beneath a lantern as the day fades to evening, a brilliant sunset painted across the sky in his favourite shade of orange. I drink in the sight and then scan my husband’s words, smiling and blushing at the opening salutation:

_ My Darling Wife: _

He continues, assuring me that he has arrived safely and fortunately timed, as his friend is most in need of Peeta’s assistance and is grateful for the pair of men who chose to accompany him. I smile at his descriptions of his friend, the farm on which they now labor, and even the men of Everdeen bringing songs from home to the new fields. Other words, however, concern me. 

_ Nights are lonely without you, my pearl. The mattress here is too soft and wide without your warmth. The empty space beside me invites terrible visions. I sleep now in a more rough manner, as I did when my life was ruled by drum beats, the rattle of sabers, and musket fire. On the floor if the nights grow cold, outside beneath the stars and moon should they be balmy. Even then, the sight of the heavens keeps you with me, knowing the same stars I stare upon as I seek refuge in sleep watch over your own nights and dreams. It seems to help for now, as though the return to the routine of sleeping thus banishes the lingering effects of that life. _

I close my eyes and send my thoughts across the miles to him, hoping he might feel that I am with him, caring for him, loving him, longing for his return. His words do little to soothe my fears for him as they carry such a sadness to them. Save for the final paragraph, which I know I shall read again and again over the coming days.

_ I can only hope that our parting moments have not tarnished your opinion of me. I acted in such a base manner, taking advantage of the night and our parting, succumbing to the temptation to treat you so. I beg a thousand pardons from you for my roughness. I am indeed the brute you accused me of, as I must confess that as guilty as I feel for my lack of gentility in those moments, I think of them near constantly, with a powerful fever in my blood. The effect you have on me...my wife, my love, precious pearl...Katniss, I cannot even describe it save to say that every ounce of me longs to return to you, to hold you in my arms and feel your breath upon my neck, your hands...well those I would wish wherever you choose to place them. And indeed, I even long to perhaps repeat our parting moments, albeit in a more gentle manner suitable to your comfort. For now, I must work and hope that I have not destroyed what fragile foundations we have so carefully built together. Until I return to you, I remain… _

_ Your ever loving husband, _

_ ~Peeta~ _

He apologizes. He apologizes for a thing I cannot regret. A thing I think of near constantly as well, also with a frightening fever in my blood that I’ve no idea how to quench without him. I do not know how to tell him that I too am filled with longing. For him. For his return. 

I feel as though I hold his very soul with this parchment, much as I do when I peruse his sketches. I envy his ability to so easily express himself and curse my own reticence to reciprocate. I attempt to answer him, yet continually fall short. Even writing out  _ I love you, Peeta _ angers me. So hollow compared to the picture he paints with the words in his letters. I crumple the thing into a ball and toss my sad attempt at an answering letter into the flames only to try again.

That does no good in quenching the fever taken hold of me either. 

I haven’t his gift for words and can only hope that my scrawled missives might convey my feelings back to him. They seem so paltry compared to his, my letters short scraps of news or remarks on the weather, the festival. I do not know how to convey the depth of my feelings on such thin paper. Not even the ink seems thick enough to carry the right tone, and yet he manages the feat.

The days proceed. Most days bring with them a letter from Peeta. Whenever they arrive, I savor them, drinking in his words, reading them three times or more, until I think perhaps I have an adequate response to send. Adequate, but I fear not enough.

Each morning when I wake, I fight fatigue and nausea. I request the ginger root tea and keep my theories to myself for now. I pass a day waiting for my courses that never arrive, and then another. I begin to hope in the absence -- the absence of both Peeta and my monthly cycle -- but heeding Madge’s counsel, I hold that knowledge close to my heart until I can be certain. 

In the meantime, I add his letters to my book, in place of his morning sketches. I dream of that night, and of all the others. That night for which he apologized. Apologized as though I could feel debased or shamed by what we shared. A thing that has led me to a sin most grievous, I fear. My hands now wander the landscape of my own body in the night as I dream of him and attempt to recreate his touch. He apologizes while I cling to the hope of certainty -- the certainty of our happiness should I be correct in my hopes that I am with child. Some days it near destroys me, and then the post arrives. 

My mother notes my tea preferences and smiles, soft and content. When my father asks her what has her so pink and lovely, she assures him that it is nothing. Simply the brightness of a fair morning and the pleasure of having two content daughters, a bountiful harvest.

After breakfast that day, she requests a moment of my time and embraces me.

“How late?”

“Nearly six days now,” I tell her and she kisses my temple.

“I will have Joe exercise Sagittaria for you.” I blush hotly at that. Johanna will surely know why, but I do not contradict my mother’s bidding. “In a few weeks, we will send for the doctor. Does Peeta know?”

“Not yet,” I tell her and she leans back to caress my cheek.

“Are you pleased?” I manage a nod and then bury my face in her bosom when she embraces me again. Now if only I could summon the courage to tell him how I feel. I should think it would be easier through ink and paper and yet I have had no success with it.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

I huff angrily in the afternoon sunshine one day, tapping the end of my quill on the desk. Only four days remain in our separation and I have yet to write a satisfactory letter to him. Only the short, rather impersonal things one might send to a cousin or mere acquaintance. Worse, his grow more removed every day. It is as though he slips further away from me the longer I am unable to convey my feelings.

Madge walks by the open study door, her laughter clear and beautiful. Maysilee dances along behind her, singing a silly song, twirling and losing her balance, grasping hold of her mother’s skirts to keep from falling. 

Such courage they have in acting as their true selves. Maysilee fears no judgement in her imaginings and games. She finds joy with no caution to temper it. And Madge… Even in her secrets and her scandalous affair, my friend found the courage to seize her desires. Such courage Johanna has in leaving everything familiar to her and building a life of her own, free of the shackles but also the security of her parents. 

Such courage it must have taken Peeta to open his heart to me every step of our marriage. 

I sit straight and gather my own courage. Perhaps I have not been as brave as I could wish, but I shall begin now. I can be brave with Peeta. He will not discard my heart carelessly. I think of all our nights in the kitchens, in front of the fire in our room, beside the lake, and in the arms of their comforting memories, I write.

_ My Darling Husband, _

_ This letter should have made its way to you a week past, and yet I struggled to find the courage to put my thoughts to words. I beseech you to sleep in peace, or have you forgotten my requirements of you? I would hate for your lack of caring for your own person to dim our pending reunion. Your apologies for what transpired the night of our parting are unnecessary and rather insulting. I am not so fragile, as you know. A brute in the night, as long as he has your gentle touch in the day, is nothing for me to fear and nothing for you to regret. _

I read back over my words and blush. Fan myself as it has grown quite hot in this room. That is quite enough sentiment, I decide and charge onward with one of my more regular litanies of ongoings at home. I manage one more thing I likely should have mentioned in an earlier letter. A subtle hint that I have come to know his companion, Joe, quite well in his absence. I hear shouts in the hall and hurry to finish.

_ Until you return home to me, I remain _

_ Your loving wife, _

_ Katniss _

“Katniss! Horses! In the lane!” Prim shouts, pausing in the doorway as I sign my name. She smiles at me and I stand. It is good to see this side of her again. Smiling and happy, eager to greet visitors. I am glad of it and leave my letter to finish sealing later.

“We are not expecting the Hawthornes yet, are we? Or perhaps Mr. Rory Hawthorne wishes one more chance to woo you before the season begins,” I tease and she shakes her head.

“He intends to visit with his brother in spring.”

I follow her giddy pace down the hall, as quickly as I can manage, as I feel a bit ill at the moment. I rest a hand on my middle and will the feeling to abate. Through the window, I catch sight of a man still mounted on a horse. His shoulders and back a familiar, broad shape, encased in a dark green coat. He removes his hat and my breath hitches at the blonde curls that gleam in the sunshine.

“Peeta,” I whisper and hasten my footsteps. 

He is home! He is home early! My heart races as I grab hold of my skirts and overcome Prim, through the open doors. A chestnut prances nervously as the man announces himself to the footman.

It is the wrong horse.

I halt and Prim collides with me. My smile vanishes.

“Ah! There she is! Mrs. Mellark, do tell these chaps that I am your brother now.”

“Sir Robert,” I manage to say and his strained smile smoothes out. It is then that I notice Delly on a mare at his side. I manage a curtsy to the pair of them.

“Indeed! We came ahead of the wagon with our things. It should be here shortly. Surely my brother told you of our intent to visit?” he says and manages to steady his horse long enough to dismount, sweeping into a bow directed at me.

“He did not.”

“Oh,” Robert’s smile falters for a moment and then returns brighter than ever. “I did send word.”

I was almost married to this man. The thought leaps up and claims my attention, unbidden and strangely… unpleasant, and I cannot help but wonder if the last time I saw him, was he proposing to me from behind a mask of lies or was he kissing me from behind a mask of plaster and paint and more lies?

“Peeta is not here presently,” I say, the joy I felt only moments ago now cracks across my chest, in an unnameable mixture of emotions. My head spins and I feel slightly faint as I fight against the very real and evident feeling that I might disgrace myself and purge my stomach of its contents right here on the steps. “I have sent his post on to him.”

“Ah, then the news was lost in the time of transfer, no doubt.” He turns to help Delly from her horse and then strides up the stairs and straight to my sister, taking her hand and once more bowing, clearly confident that he will not be turned away, despite the lack of notice. “The lovely Miss Primrose Everdeen, I presume. Indeed your sister has not exaggerated your beauty. Such lovely sisters! I feared my memory might have played tricks but lo! You are as radiant as I recall.” 

The last is spoken directly to me, with eyes and teeth shining in a flattering smile. A traitorous flutter disrupts my pulse, although I manage to control it quickly. He still holds my sister’s hand. His wife only now joins us.

“Katniss?” Prim asks and I glance at her wide eyed expression.

“Sir Robert Mellark,” I manage to croak. “Peeta’s half brother.”

“Come now, we are family, Katniss! You will not allow me my fun? You must introduce me as his twin brother!”

I ignore his words and incline my head towards the door. “Primrose, please tell Sae that we have guests. Sir Robert Mellark and  _ his wife _ .” She thankfully does not question, although the current of unease must be plain to her. She extricates her hand from Sir Robert’s and hurries inside.

“Yes! My wife. I believe you two have met before.”

“Indeed we have met. ‘Tis good to see you again, Delly,” I say and find that I mean it.

“We are not causing you trouble?” Delly asks with a lovely, happy smile that I remember quite well.

As much as this churning, confusing feeling inside me makes me wish to turn Sir Robert away, I know that I cannot deny Peeta’s family a visit, and I would not dream of being rude to Delly. She has done me no injury.

“No, of course not. It is only that Peeta will likely be gone another four days.”

“No matter! We will find plenty to amuse us in the meantime. I believe I caught sight of a harvest festival as we rode in?” Sir Robert says. I nod an affirmative and he offers an arm to Delly. “Excellent. I’ve not been to one in an age!”

“Then by all means, make yourselves at home,” I say, hoping that my words ring sincere, as I am not sure I can distinguish up from down as I follow the man I thought to marry and his wife into my home.

I pause in the doorway and turn back, holding one hand over my eyes to shield them from the sun, squinting through the light and the dirt. There is no other rider in the lane.


	20. Chapter 20

I barely make the post with my letter for Peeta. I squander several minutes ensuring Sir Robert and Delly are settled as well as introduced to my parents. My father greets the newcomers rather stiffly, a searching look in his eyes when he glances at me. I cannot remember how much I told him of Sir Robert but if his expressions are any indication, it was enough to make my father uneasy in Sir Robert’s presence.

Then I am forced to ruin what I had thought was a passingly affectionate letter to my husband with a hasty and rather impersonal post script that reads:

_ Your brother and his wife have come to visit. They have not stated how long they intend to stay. _

I rush to seal it and burn my thumb on the hot wax, sucking on it and whining like a babe. I despise pain and I despise pain from burns most of all. Tears prick at my eyes and yet I refuse to cry, rushing back into the hall to add my letter to the small stack of outgoing post. A coin for the lad carrying the post and I accept the newly arrived missives. There are quite a few of them and I quickly sort them. 

After the morning that I have endured, one of Peeta’s letters is precisely what I need. I smile when I find one among the letters and slide it into my pocket for later. 

There is one for Haymitch, although he seems to have disappeared. When I ask Sae if she has seen him, she chortles.

“Last I saw him, he was slinking into the library like he didn’t want to be noticed. Had a bottle of your father’s brandy and a glass with him.” I scoff at this and take his letter to the library. 

At first, I think it empty but then I hear the distinct sound of glass striking glass, a drink being poured. I move on silent feet to the back of the sofa and lean over it.

“Ah!” Haymitch startles into a seated position and sloshes some of the brandy onto his waistcoat. He glares at me as I snatch the glass out of his hand and replace it with the letter.

“Your post. And might I suggest a better hiding place next time?”

“I am not hiding.”

“Aren’t you?”

“Your house has grown quite crowded,” Haymitch grumbles.

“Family is always welcome at Everdeen,” I mutter and he throws his head back with a chortle. He sets the bottle on the floor and brushes uselessly at the brandy stain on his clothing.

“Such excitement in your tone, sweetheart. Do not tell me you are agitated by the new arrivals.”

“I damn well am and you know damn well why,” I say and take a healthy swallow from his glass. He snatches the thing back, chuckling before turning to open his mail. I am stalling, rudely observing him as he reads. “I had better see about tea this afternoon since we have more guests.”

“Wait. You’ll want to hear this. It is from Mr. Burbank, my solicitor.” His words bring me to a halt and I spin with hope in my heart. “Yes. Yes you will certainly want to see this. But I warn you, sweetheart… there are not many more available rooms at Everdeen.”

“Let me see,” I insist and snatch the letter out of his hands.

“My belongings seem to be continually disappearing in this room. You may be right about another hiding spot.”

I ignore his sarcastic comment, scanning the words on the page and shouting with triumph. “What luck! How has she remained in the same orphanage all this time?”

“No one adopted her.”

“Can this…” my heart pounds and I feel cold, so very cold and faint as I continue reading the letter. “No. This cannot be true. They mean to send her to a workhouse?”

“When she turns eight, my dear. It is becoming quite common among these institutions. Too many mouths and not enough beds.”

“No. I will not stand for it.”

“Are you going to adopt every ragged urchin destined for a workhouse?”

“Would that I could,” I say and sniffle. Haymitch makes a noise of protest.

“You are not going to  _ weep _ ?”

“Of course I am going to weep! You should as well! An innocent child sent to those...beastly conditions! What sort of monster allows such a thing to continue?” In truth, I wish that I could adopt every one of them or find them decent homes, burn the workhouses to the ground and see the proprietors hung in the square.

“Here,” he hands me a handkerchief and I snivel into the thing. Haymitch opens his mouth to speak and then closes it. Again and a third time as I attempt to gain control of my tears with little success. When I try to hand it back, he pushes my hand away from him. “Keep it.”

“Thank you,” I say and he sighs, grumbling about losing yet another of his things in the library today.

“When will your husband return? You’ve about two months, maybe three before she’s sent away, but if you are truly determined to do this--”

“I am. She belongs here, with her family.” I do not know why I feel so strongly about this, yet I do. I know that it is the right thing to do, and although I have not yet told Peeta, I am certain that he will agree. “Peeta will be home in four days. I hate to ask him to turn around so soon for another journey, but time is critical.”

Haymitch grunts. “I can have Mr. Burbank begin inquiries and start any paperwork needed to assume custody of the child, arrange a meeting for you with him.”

“Yes, do that. Thank you, Haymitch.” I lean over to embrace him then and he pats my back awkwardly.

“There now, Sweetheart. No need for more tears. Marriage has made you terribly sentimental.”

“And it made you a hermit,” my father says as he strides into the room. “Effie is going on about how you are never about when she needs you. She has also gotten it in her head to have fresh blackberry jam and Maysilee is insistent on a berry hunting adventure after I mentioned that it will likely be the last opportunity before winter sets in. Haymitch, I am not certain your wife understands the rugged sort of adventure Maysilee has grown used to about here.” When he sees my face, my father frowns. “You truly have been crying. Is everything alright?”

“It will be,” I say and hand the letter back to Haymitch. “I think I may join them on their adventure. Perhaps then Effie’s dress will be spared the thorns and we will be spared her lamentations.”

Laughter follows me into the hall and I stop short as I come face to face with Sir Robert.

“Ah. Miss Ever— Mrs. Mellark,” he says with a slight bow. Heat rushes over me, my heart dances oddly in my chest. I ignore it.

“Tea will be served in the parlor soon,” I tell him and motion towards the library, “But I do believe fortifying refreshments are already being distributed in the library.”

“Why don’t you announce it to the entire village?” Haymitch protests.

“Then perhaps I should fetch a few more glasses.” Sir Robert looks to be saying more and so I give him a nod, a curt affirmative, and slide around him, making my escape to the kitchen.

Haymitch is quite right. My home grows crowded and it is most inconvenient to have so many guests underfoot right now.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Tea is served and the niceties of society observed. Comments made on the weather, bits of news shared, excitement over the festival expressed.

“It is a shame my brother has not been here to enjoy it,” Sir Robert says. His words prick my ire for some reason.

“He was able to enjoy a few days before he left,” Madge soothes.

“I am certain he enjoyed it immensely. He was always fond of the Harvest Festival when we were children. I did tell you not to worry so about him, Robert,” Delly says as she accepts a cup from Madge and turns her attentions to my friend. “Peeta has a talent for endearing himself to others wherever he goes, and you were all so kind in welcoming myself and my brother during the spring. I had no doubts he would be happy here.”

“Of course they were welcoming. You were handing out boots free of charge,” Robert says with a smile. My father makes a strange noise in his throat, something like a cough. My mother leans in to tend him, but his eyes meet mine. The look he gives me tells me that I must have indeed told him a great portion of the story involving Sir Robert. In that moment, I am glad that I gave my father so many of the particulars.

The sound he makes, however, has also drawn the notice of others. Sir Robert’s eyes drop to my father’s arm, then away. He seems discomfited around Father’s truncated limb and that makes little sense, given the close nature of his relation to Peeta. Surely Sir Robert is used to such a sight.

“How is Eljah?” Madge asks Delly and her smile brightens at the mention of her brother. She speaks about how Robert has agreed to see Elijah Cartwright educated, or at the very least apprenticed.

“How splendid,” Madge agrees. “An opportunity to study. Has he an idea what profession he may take?”

“Not as yet,” Delly says. “We are still determining the particulars.”

“Yes, well certain needs must be met first,” Robert says, an odd strain in his voice. I tilt my head and cannot help the examination of Sir Robert’s dress. On closer inspection, the boots do not shine as much as they ought. His coat seems wrinkled and there is a patch in one section -- a poorly done patch. A stain on his waistcoat that has faded as though it happened some time ago and has withstood the siege of many washings yet still holds ground in the fabric.

My eyes lift to his face to find him watching me, and I realize they lack some of the carefree, foppish shine that I recall from earlier this year. Sir Robert, it would appear, has received a cold dose of reality in marrying his beloved shoemaker. Reality appears to disagree with him.

A sharp twinge of pity strikes before I can stifle it. This is Peeta’s brother and for that reason I should show him care, but he is also the man who so easily discarded me. My pride raises sabers to battle my empathy, and yet neither are perfectly right in this war.

“Katniss, won’t you sit?” My mother asks with clear concern in her eyes, but I cannot. I cannot sit still, a restless need having taken hold of me since ushering Peeta’s brother -- my former fiancé -- into our home. I sit anyways and refrain from partaking in the conversation as I sip my tea and barely taste it.

During the entire ordeal, Maysilee inches closer and closer to me until she is pressed into my side, despite her mother’s gentle admonitions to sit still to drink her tea and not crowd other people. I give Madge a smile and a shake of my head to let her know that Maysilee is not bothering me. In truth, I am glad for her nearness and bring her to sit on my lap.

“Darling girl, what troubles you?” I whisper and tuck back some of her hair. She turns to cup her hand over my ear, her sweet child’s breath tickling as she whispers to me.

“What’s wrong with Miss’er Pee’ah? His voice sounds strange.” My heart clenches as I follow her line of sight to Sir Robert as he accepts a biscuit from a plate that Delly holds out to him.

“That is not Mister Peeta. That is his brother,” I explain and her face crinkles in thought.

“Oh. Yes I suppose that makes more sense. So he is not cross with me?”

“Why would he be cross with you?” I ask, my ire rising as I prepare to defend Maysilee.

“I tried to give him a hug and he acted strange.”

“Oh darling, because he did not know you. Mister Peeta would be glad of your hugs, you know that.”

“Yes, yes he would,” she says solemnly and then takes another look at Sir Robert, eyes narrowing. “He stole Miss’er Pee’ah’s face.”

I cannot help it. I laugh. For one second, Maysilee appears crushed until I move close to whisper to her again.

“Indeed he has, and stealing is not right.”

“He should be punished. No biscuits with tea,” she suggests and I tickle her until she giggles.

“I’ll see that he gets no more biscuits for a week.” 

We manage to sober when I see that our antics have drawn some attention. Sir Robert watches me with the child, an unreadable expression on his face. I offer Maysilee a biscuit and a kiss on her temple, reaching around her to drink my tea and uncaring if I am rudely leaving my saucer on the table. My hands are full with child, I couldn’t possibly manage being a complete lady right now.

“Although, Maysee...you should know that some brothers and sisters are like that. They have faces almost identical.”

“If I ever have a sister, I hope she has her own face, like you and Miss Prim,” Maysilee says and I again chuckle, holding her close. “When will Miss’er Pee’ah come home?” Maysilee asks, and this time, the conversation has lulled enough that several of those present hear her. The stab it causes in my chest is more easily concealed.

“Soon, darling girl. Soon,” I assure her as she winds her arms around my neck. Then I whisper for only her to hear. “I miss him too, my sweet. I miss him too.”

After tea, we set out on our adventure. I see Maysilee and myself changed to breeches and shirts before we leave. I wear a coat and both of us wear wide gardening hats to protect our faces from the sun. Delly seems a bit shocked by our appearance as Sir Robert helps her into the cart. He himself seems distracted, acknowledging each of the ladies in our party yet unable to look me in the eyes. 

Effie protests my appearance mightily and continues to do so as I drive. Prim defends my dress as practical to our task, and I am grateful for her support. I bring the cart to a halt next to the patch of blackberry bushes and Effie silences her protests when she sees how muddy and rugged the trek will be. She laughs nervously and opens her parasol.

“Ah perhaps I shall sit here and enjoy the fine weather.”

“I will keep you company, Effie,” Madge offers with a smile before turning to admonish Maysilee. “Darling, be sure to listen to Miss Katniss.”

It strikes me then how different she looks now than when she first came to Everdeen. Still beautiful, always beautiful. I am convinced there is no situation in which Madge could appear ugly. Eight months ago her beauty was pale and ethereal, aloof and almost fragile. Now, her cheeks bear a rosy glow, her figure and features more plump and healthy, and her eyes shine with an open and happy brightness to them. Eight months ago, a Countess came to visit, and now it is a country beauty who lives with me.

I help Maysilee from the cart and hide my smile. Everdeen has been good for Madge, for Maysilee. I tickle Maysilee and she giggles, hurrying towards the bushes. “Mind the thorns!”

I take a deep, bracing gulp of the fresh air and survey the spread of bushes before me. We are on the hunt and our quarry shakes on the boughs, Maysilee fancies herself a skilled huntress, stalking her prey, gingerly shifting branches.

“Tremble with fear, oh berries! You shall make a tasty tart tonight!” She coos and I laugh. I catch the heat of the hunt, feel it warming my blood and increasing my pulse. A soft sound catches my ear and I turn towards it.

Delly has alighted from the carriage and stands, biting her lip and examining the muddy ground. She seems at odds with herself, glancing down at her dress. It may not be the silk gown of a duchess, but neither is it the rough homespun of a servant girl, a cobbler. 

My heart squeezes in inconvenient sympathy. For a moment, my hunting instincts surge upwards, smelling weakness in an adversary. It occurs to me that I should despise this girl, for she is half the reason for my humiliation and heartache earlier this year. Her weakness presents an opportunity to seize.

And yet I cannot. Because I was never in love with Robert. The heat of the pending kill wanes, presenting one last argument in the form of a delicious, suppressed memory.

The man in the mask.

I shake my head, attempting to do as I have done for months now. Ignore and discard the memory. Delly is simply a girl who fell in love with someone society claims she could never have. Yet she found both the courage and a way to have him, and while my pride was collateral damage in the transaction, I do not believe it was done to spite me, specifically. Delly has no reason to wish me harm. There is also the fact that long before she was Sir Robert’s wife, she was Peeta’s friend.

She is not my enemy.

I watch her struggle with the choice before her and allow the sympathy to rise up again. How difficult the changes must be for her. A country farm serving girl would think nothing of hurrying into the bushes to claim the tart berries. A city wife of the third son of a marquis would be more concerned with her dress. 

“There are some good groupings here, along the perimeter, where it is not so muddy,” I suggest and she looks up at me, a small smile curving up her lips.

“Yes,” Prim offers, looping her arm with Delly’s. “We shall hunt here. Maysilee and Katniss can hunt deep in the wilds.”

“Thank you,” Delly says softly to me as she and Prim set out.

It is a glorious day. A cool breeze nips the air and our cheeks, rustles through the leaves, providing a soothing sort of song. Maysilee and I lend our voices to the sounds. The sun shines warm and bright. Every now and then, Madge and Effie’s laughter will dance on the breeze towards our ears. The faint sounds of Delly and Prim speaking to one another. Maysilee offers a berry to me and I accept it with thanks, the tart juice bursting over my tongue.

“Oh these are quite good.” 

Maysilee eats one as well and nods in agreement. It feels as though we eat almost as many as we pick and yet we still manage a gallon of blackberries.

Most importantly, though, as we return to the cart, it is abundantly clear that Effie would not have fared well in the bushes. Sitting in the cart ensures that Effie’s dress remained intact. Delly’s was not so fortunate, her hem an inch soaked in mud, but her cheeks are bright and the damage appears perfectly repairable. 

Maysilee and I are an entirely different picture. Wisps of hair escape her hat and I am sure mine is in a similar state. We both have mud up to our knees, splattered across our shirts. My shirt clings to me beneath my coat, damp with perspiration. Small tears rent by thorns cover our sleeves. I shed my coat as we reach the cart. 

Maysilee’s lips are stained with berry juice and Madge giggles as I hand her daughter up to her. She does not even flinch at the mud transferred to her dress from Maysilee’s clothes, instead wiping at the berry stains on Maysilee’s lips with no luck.

“Margaret, darling your dress,” Effie frets.

“It will wash,” Madge says and then lifts a crown of ivy she must have woven as she sat waiting. Removing her daughter’s hat, Madge places the crown in its place upon Maysilee’s head. “Maysilee Charmaigne, Princess of the Blackberry Thatch.”

Maysilee giggles and insists that I wear one as well, as I am the queen of the blackberry thatch.

“Luckily, I made one for Miss Katniss as well,” Madge says and produces one from behind her back, handing it to Maysilee.

I am struck with a memory of Madge’s mother, weaving crowns of ivy and proclaiming us Princesses of the Rose Garden. Two girls laughing and scampering through the flowers and ordering the bees about our pretend kingdom. My mother singing as she embroidered. Primrose napping peacefully beside her.

A sweet longing to hold on to this moment fills me and nearly blinds me with the tears of it. Until Maysilee turns to me with the crown, woven through with a few vibrant autumn leaves of yellow and orange.

“Beautiful,” I murmur, touching the leaves and sweeping my hat from my head.

“Your majesty,” Maysilee says and curtsies before coronating me. I lift my chin and haughtily survey my subjects.

“To the castle!” I declare to lively cheers.

We return to the house with laughter on our lips, and descend upon the kitchen in a mess. Mrs. Chilton protests our appearance and sends Maysilee and myself to wash. When we return, appropriately attired in simple dresses and our ivy crowns, Madge and the kitchen staff have already begun the process of turning some of the blackberries into jam. 

Johanna wanders through, her motions much less laboured now that she has truly begun to heal. She snatches a berry and Madge swats at her hand, missing as Jo pops the fruit into her mouth. Jo cackles gleefully and scampers from the room, chased by loud shouts of protest and laughter, epithets of  _ scamp  _ and  _ rascal  _ following her.

Maysilee and I toast thin slices of bread until they are golden and crisp, smearing it with goat cheese and topping the treat with a leaf of basil and fresh blackberries. We distribute them through the house, calling out to all who might hear to taste the fruits of our labours, bidding our subjects to enjoy themselves. Had we more berries, we might venture to the festival with more.

It warms my heart, watching Maysille smile so, spreading the comfort of home and family necessary to sustain us through the long, cold months of winter ahead as we go.

“We need to save one for Miss’er Pee’ah,” Maysilee insists and tears form unbidden on my eyes.

“Oh Maysee, it will not last quite that long. But we will be certain to save a jar of the jam especially for his breakfast.”

“Do you think he would like it if I drew him a picture? Or wrote him a letter about our adventure? Like you do, Miss Katniss?” she asks suddenly and I nod.

“I think he would like that very much.” The idea brings a smile to both our faces and in no time, she is running off to her rooms, with Sae in tow, intent on creating artistic masterpieces to send to Peeta.

“She is quite attached to my brother.”

I startle at the voice. I’d not even noticed him approaching, so distracted by Maysilee I was. “Indeed she is. It is not such a difficult thing to do.”

“No, I suppose not. Merely strange. They are not related by blood, yet she acts as though he is her father,” Sir Robert says and eyes my crown.

“Her own father died when she was a babe. Peeta has provided affection, protection, and caring for her. He is the only man she has known to act towards her as a father would. How is it strange then that she be attached to him?”

“Please, I mean no offense, Mrs. Mellark. I merely attempt to understand my brother’s life here, and how all the players fit. It seems to me that one day the countess would wish to remarry, make her own life. She could easily snare another eminently wealthy husband or even a paramour for herself, security and a home for her daughter, yet she lingers here. It is most curious.” 

I stare at him and hold my tongue. Of course it is possible that Madge would find another home, a husband for her and a father for Maysilee. My heart shouts in protest at the thought. As selfish as it may be, I wish them to stay here. 

“Or perhaps not. Perhaps she has found precisely what she needs here,” Robert suggests in my silence.

“She was in need when she came to us, widowed and cast out as many women unfortunately are. We welcomed her, and this is her home for as long as she wishes it. The countess is my friend since we were infants, of course I endeavor to meet every one of her needs.”

“And I am certain you do a marvelous job of it. I only wonder at…” He trails off as though uncertain he should speak it aloud.

“Do not stop there, Sir Robert. By all means, enlighten me on how my family functions.”

“I hate to be rude.”

“Indeed? I shall endeavor to not take offense,” I say and his eyes narrow at me. It’s a strange sight. I cannot recall Robert angry or perturbed. He always seemed unshakable in his jocularity.

“There must be some needs you cannot meet, either the Countess’ or perhaps…” He struggles with the words momentarily and I cling to the quickly fraying shreds of manners I have left. “My brother, I worry about him being an outcast. Delly thinks he fits in well wherever he goes, but it is not without some… turmoil that he accomplishes this, usually internal turmoil.”

“You think I neglect his feelings?”

“You were once honest with me, allow me to be honest with you. Yes, I fear that you may neglect his feelings and he will not ask you to remedy that, as it is not his way to do so. He may turn elsewhere instead.” 

I cannot stop the stunned noise that I make. I could easily set Sir Robert’s misconceptions straight with a simple confession yet I refuse to give it to him before I give it Peeta himself. They are my words to gift.

“It must be difficult for him here with so many lovely ladies about.” His words and their bitter tone draw the silence straight out of my lungs.

“You’ve known your brother for years and believe him capable of such perfidy?”

“You’ve no idea what he’s capable of, given enough desperation.” Robert’s words sink into my brain as I see flashes of nightmares painted in Peeta’s own words. Johanna’s words. No, I suppose I haven’t much idea what he is capable of in desperation.

“His choices in mistress are rather limited here. There isn’t a one I do not know,” I attempt to argue and he snorts. Indelicate and rude. 

“Oh Katniss, there you are!” Madge says, a bright smile wreathing her face, fading slightly as her eyes flick between myself and Sir Robert. “Are you ready to head over to the festival?”

“In a moment,” I assure her and lift the tray I still hold. “I need to return this to the kitchens first.”

“Of course. We will meet you in the hall.” Madge disappears and I grip tight to the tray.

“Are they so limited?” Sir Robert asks softly. “The Countess is uncommonly handsome. She has the look about her of a woman in love.”

I stare at him, aghast. “You know so much of women in love then?”

“Enough,” he says and smiles at me. “Enough to know when I see one.”

Stupid, traitorous, fickle pulse. It leaps and nearly chokes me in response to that smile, even as I dream of skewering him through the eye for his words.

“She is only recently out of mourning,” I murmur instead. He does not look impressed, and I know, as he clearly does too, that Madge never cared for her husband. I know, as he likely does not, that Madge is not afraid of engaging in an affaire, of welcoming a touch of scandal.

My heart pounds in my breast as he reaches towards me.

“Then again... perhaps I am mistaken. My only concern is my brother’s happiness. May I?” Sir Robert indicates the last cheese and berry treat on my platter. I cannot help but think of how Maysilee wished to save this for Peeta. How I wish I could deny Sir Robert the treat with those words, the insistence that this last morsel is reserved for Peeta. Instead, I am forced to offer it up to his brother or let it go to waste. 

“Of course.”

“Thank you,” he says and eats the treat with relish. “Delicious.”

His voice is warm and almost tender. Sensual.

“If you will excuse me, Sir Robert. I have work to accomplish,” I tell him and scurry away, ashamed at my cowardice. Furious with his insinuations and the way they have wound into my brain, making sense where they should not. At his treatment of Delly in so blatantly flirting with me,  _ me  _ of all people. His discarded fiancé. His brother’s  _ wife! _ Then his insinuations that there might be something between Madge and Peeta. 

I think of the pack of suitors who descended on Haymitch and Effie’s parlour, all clamoring for Madge’s notice. Sir Robert is correct in that regard at least. It would take little effort on Madge’s part to secure a second husband or a paramour. She could have her choosing of men and yet she shows no desire to do so, although she has expressed a desire for more children.

No. I cannot believe it. There are a thousand other explanations for Madge’s radiant appearance. The man is despicable and I cannot countenance Peeta’s love and defense of him one bit. Worse, I cannot explain my bodily reaction to him. It is unnerving and infuriating.

In desperation, I retreat to my room and tear into Peeta’s letter. It is short and blindingly distant compared to some of his previous letters, no flowery prose, no longing or love. Merely a reassurance that he is well and that while the work progresses satisfactorily, his plans remain as we discussed. The last few sentences warn that his brother Sir Robert has written, intending to visit.

_ I must apologise for his lack of consideration in giving so little notice. He may even be on your doorstep before this letter reaches you. If he is still there when I return, I shall take him to task for inconveniencing you so. There is no need to overexert yourself in entertaining him and Delly. As soon as I return, I shall assume the task of host. _

_ Your husband, _ _  
_ _ ~ Peeta ~ _

I send for Mary and ask her to inform the countess that I feel ill and will not be joining her after all. Then I stretch out on our sofa, mine and Peeta’s, and hug a cushion to my chest. I need rest, I decide. I must be exhausted for surely that is the explanation for my tears as they leak from my eyes.


	21. Chapter 21

Over the next several days, I immerse myself in tasks and avoid the concerned eyes of my family. Between the many guests, the festival, and Maysilee, I run myself ragged and am grateful to do so. If I am too busy to think, then I cannot think of Sir Robert’s words. If I cannot dwell on them, then I cannot insult my dearest friend by begging her to tell me it isn’t true. Such fickle hearts that stray so easily with the slightest bit of doubt! I do not want these thoughts in my heart.

Throughout each day, my mother has plates of food and tea sent to me, to entice me to eat more -- ginger root tea in the morning, a dandelion tea in the afternoon, chamomile in the evening. My father expresses concern and I wave it off as fatigue. 

“Too many guests to attend to, nothing more,” I assure him with a smile. I can see that he does not believe me, and yet Haymitch and Effie are kind enough to provide a timely distraction that keeps him from persisting. He has no choice but to let it go for the moment when he is faced with the same quandary that I hide behind.

My mind and my heart, torn apart between what I believe, and the distance between us, do not allow me to confess my fears, my shame, to anyone. Was I truly fooling myself, believing Peeta and I happy and in love? It would not be the first time my heart misled me so. The man in the mask lurks in the corners, taunting me with my past gullibility. I try not to think of him, yet the harder I try, the more present he becomes in my thoughts.

Madge worries over me, I know she does. I can see it in her eyes, and yet I cannot look too closely nor for too long. I know Sir Robert’s insinuations to be false, against all I know of her character, and yet I cannot seem to shake their hold. They creep into the darkest, most fearsome corners of my mind, an invasive vine of doubt clouding out the light of all reason. The more I fight them, the more they seem to take root. My own mind has become my worst enemy.

At night, I find no rest. Terrifying images of swirling reds and dancing flames. A leering man in a mask and one who seduces with sweet words and sweeter kisses. Betrayal and pernicious lies that leave me gasping and crying, reaching for the companion of my bed and of my life who is not there.

I long for him. I wish him here to hold me and know that I cannot wish that until I gain control of and evict these doubts from my heart.

Early in the mornings, before I rise, I lay in our bed and read each of Peeta’s letters again, peruse the pages of the sketch book meant only for me, hoping for some sort of solid proof to uproot the gnawing fears. He took his other sketch book with him, or I would peruse that one as well. While the early letters help, the latter, more impersonal ones only serve to clear a space for the fear to grow further into my heart. I’ve no reason, no accounting for his growing distance from me and it feeds the fear. 

Rain arrives and either cancels or drives the festivities indoors, such as they are. The day before Peeta is meant to return, I wake late, to a near silent house. I grumble to myself about being left abed too long and force myself into motion. I’ve much to see done today and do not intend to waste time.

I work and see to the household until I finally feel that I have earned some rest. I think I need solace and comfort, and the only place I know for certain I can find that now is in my mother and father’s embrace.

In searching for my parents, I discover a rather odd sight and halt in the hallway, peering through the door to Maysilee’s room at the pair playing on the floor.

“Katniss! So good to see you looking better. How are you feeling?” Delly says and Maysilee hurries over to hug me. “Won’t you join us?”

“Yes! Come play with us, Miss Katniss!” Maysilee pleads. I couldn’t possibly refuse her, much as I would like to avoid Delly right now. I agree and sit on the rug next to Maysilee, dutifully playing the role assigned to me and falsely deepening my voice to that of a man’s as I accept tea on behalf of the doll.

Maysilee giggles and then yawns. We play for a while longer until she curls up in my lap. I comb my fingers through her thick, wavy blonde hair and smile contentedly as she sucks her thumb, drifting off into sweet girlhood dreams. I should move her to the bed, yet she looks so content, I hate to wake her.

Only, this means that I am left in uncomfortable silence with Delly and no idea how to speak to her. She clears her throat and seems determined to initiate the task for me.

“I must thank you again, Katniss, and your family...for welcoming us so kindly.”

“You are Peeta’s sister now, that makes you family,” I say, keeping my eyes focused on Maysilee.

“Yes, well. Even family can become a complicated tangle sometimes, no matter how much one loves them.” For some reason, this makes me chuckle. I appreciate Delly’s candor. Somehow, she does not sound bitter about it, and I envy her that. When I lift my eyes to her, she is smiling, arranging the skirts on a doll as though she hasn’t a care in the world. For some reason, she reminds me of Effie and I realise I have been remiss in so many of my manners.

“And I must congratulate you on your nuptials. I do not believe I have had the chance and apologise for my tardy felicitations,” I say.

Delly’s smile wavers and she turns watery eyes to mine. “Thank you. Truly, Katniss. I worried that perhaps you might hate me and I could not bear the thought of it.”

“Why would you care if I hated you?” I ask before my mind can stop the question. I blame the comfort of Maysilee’s warm body asleep in my lap, the steady rhythm of her breathing and the soft pattering of the rain on the roof.

“We are now sisters in way…are we not? But primarily it is because Peeta loves you so.” Her answer surprises me. For a moment, my fingers halt their motions. Maysilee shifts and whimpers. I continue my attentions to her and Delly looks away, out the window towards the rain. “When he first spoke to me about the lady he had helped in the rain one day, I had such hope. It had been so long since I’d seen light such as that in his eyes. He will not...he will not speak to me of what happened while he was with the infantry and yet I know it eats away at him. He came home with a… a darkness in his soul that I did not know how to touch.”

“You know him so well then?”

“As you know the Countess,” Delly says with a quirk of her lips and an almost amused look. “He may be several years my elder, but we were friends since I could walk and he was in many ways my protector when we were children. I think our parents thought perhaps we might marry one day, but I had always thought of him as my brother. Even if I hadn’t, fate,” she sighs, a heavy sound at odds with her usually cheerful disposition “Well fate decided otherwise, and she does know far better than I, in this case especially.”

Such a pleasant way to describe what happened to them, and yet I am drawn into the tale yet again, much as I was when Peeta first told it.

“Anyways, when he asked me to replace your boots and he was so...particular with the whole thing, so troublesome in pestering me for details afterwards, even though I insisted that I never share the conversations of my customers. ‘Twould be a breach of their confidence to do so!”

I cannot help but smile at her indignation, at her conviction in maintaining the trust of those whose footwear she fashions.

“And what did you think of me after that meeting?”

“Oh, that you would be a perfect fit for Peeta. You were so strong, so very brave and yet kind. I could see in an instant why he was taken with you, but then so soon after, I saw him in Capitol. He said that Robert had begun courting you and…” she pauses and glances back out the window. I wish to scream at her to continue and yet she does not. I think then of what Peeta said, about how Robert had proposed to her several years ago, and she refused, afraid it would bring him down in the world and he would resent her for it. It strikes me then that this appears to be precisely what has happened.

Oh poor Delly, to have her heart slashed so.

I continue to caress Maysilee’s hair for courage and find my voice. “It must have been terribly upsetting for you. To think that Sir Robert’s affections had wandered.”

“Forgive me, Katniss, but that is not what led me to what I did. You must think me so fickle.”

“In truth, I am still attempting to discern what I think of you.”

“So very bluntly honest. Just as Robert said,” she appraises me with a smile and shakes her head. “I did not think Robert’s affections had wandered. He hardly spoke of you at all, only of facing what was expected of him, his duty to his family name. Marriage, family, the pride of the Marquis. No, it was not Robert’s words that drove me back to him but Peeta’s.”

“Peeta’s?” I ask, even more confused.

“You will think me terrible. Robert has always been fond of attentions and an incorrigible flirt,” she says this rather fondly while I think she should wish to strangle him for such behaviour. “There were always at least a dozen ladies hoping to be Mrs. Robert Mellark and while he could fall in and out of love with all of them on any given day, none of them showed any advancement or sign of success in securing him. He always returned to me, in letters most of the time, since we could so rarely be together. Until you.”

“He did not love me,” I say with a shake of my head.

“No, he did not, as it turns out. But Peeta did,” Delly says with conviction that almost frightens me. “He did and he still does.”

“That still does not explain why you eloped with Sir Robert,” I argue. “Perhaps you had them confused.”

“Oh no, I could always tell the difference, even before the scars. And of course it explains why. You must understand, Robert was the only one in that family to open their heart to Peeta when he needed someone the most. Ethan and Henry did eventually, but it took years to do so.” This much, I already know to be true, by Peeta’s own admission. “Peeta will forever be bound to love Robert for this. He will spend his life attempting to reciprocate in some fashion. As part of that, Peeta would never allow himself something he wanted -- be it a toy, a sweet stolen from the kitchens, or the love and attentions of a certain person -- if Robert wanted the same thing.”

I stare at her with wide eyes, understanding that Peeta’s loyalty to Robert would lead him to sacrifice a great deal. It then dawns on me precisely what sacrifice Delly refers to in this case, a chance at something -- or rather someone. My cheeks burn with the realisation.

“Peeta wanted to be the one courting you. He wanted  _ you _ … so very desperately, but Robert seemed to want the same thing.”

And so Peeta would not even take the chance, withdrawing to a position of observance, to protect his brother who falls in love too easily, to ensure that the fortune hunting lady Robert had chosen to pursue in earnest would not break his brother’s heart, even as our courtship, such as it was, broke Peeta’s. How very sad indeed.

“It was Peeta’s certainty that you and Robert would be married soon, Peeta’s refusal to even entertain the thought of courting you when he so clearly wished to, that convinced me I was about to lose Robert forever.  _ That  _ is what drove me back to Robert. I had to know if he seriously intended to marry you. I always regretted spurning his first proposal, even though I was right to do so, I...oh Katniss I am so sorry. I was terribly selfish in running away with him.”

“Well,” I say with my throat constricted and my head pounding. “Not entirely. You did save us both from a loveless marriage.”

She stares at me and then begins to laugh. It is quite a cheerful sound, and I find then that I am rather fond of Delly. There is much that needs fixing in this family, and that includes the sadness I still see lingering in her eyes, even as she laughs. If she truly loves Robert, rakish ways and all, then she deserves some form of happiness with him.

“Oh look!” Delly exclaims cheerfully. “The rain has finally stopped!”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The rain only clears for an hour. Not even long enough for me to strengthen my fragile grasp on my doubts and pull them from the muddy quagmire my mind has become. It stops just long enough for Maysilee to wake and decide she wishes to play in the gardens. It stops just long enough for the post to arrive and nearly destroy what little gains I have made with Delly’s words, her belief in Peeta’s love for me. Someone else’s belief in our love is not enough. I need to believe it for myself, and I do not seem to have the talent for hoping and believing today.

There is no letter for me from Peeta. There is, however, a letter written in his hand addressed to  _ Lady M. Charmaigne _ . My heart clenches as I deliver it into Madge’s palm. She smiles, bright and beautiful, and turns from me.

“Maysilee! Darling, Mister Peeta has answered your letter. Come and I will read it to you.”

The shock and relief register, sweeping through me so quickly that I’ve no chance to guard my expression. Of course. Maysilee asked to write to him and he has responded. This is no secret love letter to Madge.

“Katniss? Are you ill?” Madge asks.

“I…” 

I cannot answer. It all overwhelms me, and I have spent so much effort fighting it, that I find I have none left. Madge asks Sae to take Maysilee to the parlour to read her letter instead, and I am left in the soggy gardens with my dear friend and a storm of feelings I cannot seem to sort. It is too much, building and building over days, weeks even with little to no release.

“I am so sorry. Madge, I...please forgive me. I cannot face him alone much longer, Madge. Something is...wrong with me,” I whisper between crazed gasps for air. 

She takes my elbow and guides me to a bench in the garden. We sit and I am struck by the memory of just such a scene in Peeta’s sketchbook, rendered with beauty and care. Both of us, lovingly drawn.

“Who? Sir Robert?”

I nod and stare across the neatly tended flower beds, towards the cursedly empty lane. No riders. No Peeta.

“Why not?” Madge asks and there is a strange sort of anger in her voice.

“Because he…” I cannot even say it.

“Because he broke your engagement? Katniss can you really still mourn such a thing?”

“No. No, it isn’t that,” I say and turn to look at my friend. The blaze in her eyes frightens me.

“As it should not be. I know his elopement left you in an exceedingly awkward position for a time, and that your pride was hurt, perhaps even your heart to a small degree, but honestly Katniss. You have to let him go. Had Sir Robert not eloped with Delly, you would be married to him right now!”

I make a wretched noise of disgust and she laughs. Then I laugh and tears burst free, a torrent of them. I am no longer able to contain them. “And it would be a wretched marriage!” I moan through my tearful laughter.

“Completely wretched! You could never be happy with anyone so inconstant. And you would not have your Peeta then.”

Doubt flares back up and I eye my smiling friend for signs. Oh God above, why am I falling prey to such doubt? I know my husband and my friend better than that. Only that...he has deceived me before. The truth slices through me, swift and deadly as a sword.

“ _ My _ Peeta,” I whisper and she nods, no sign of envy nor deceit in her cool blue eyes. Only the openness of my friend. And I can no longer contain it. “I am so confused right now. He said things...about you and Peeta and the strangeness of our family here…” I trail off and Madge shakes her head, brow creased in her own sort of confusion. “He said you would not linger here if there were not a reason… that you would find another husband post haste, and he does not know about what happened after your marriage yet implies the same sort of... arrangement. I know you would not betray me so and I shouldn’t even ask but--”

“Oh,” she says, her eyes widening in understanding and then narrowing. “What evidence could he possibly give for  _ that? _ ”

“He said you have the look of a woman in love.”

“And you believed him?”

“No,” I say and my convictions slowly begin to return to me. I do not know why, only that I draw from her expression the strength to voice my fears and begin to banish them. “No, I believe you have the look of a woman who is finally happy, and it does not require love.”

“I  _ am _ happy, and it  _ did _ require love, but not necessarily from a man.” Her words are shocking and calming and so welcome all at once. Everything I needed to hear and I regret not speaking to her sooner. “You know I have reasons for not pursuing another marriage, but that does not mean my life is without love. I love you, Katniss, as you love me. You are my dearest friend, and you have so generously and lovingly welcomed myself and Maysilee into your home and your life without expectation. I linger here because Everdeen has become our home, and all of you our family. Your family -- Primrose and your parents -- I have always loved along with you, and I confess that yes, I count Peeta now as part of my family as well. 

“Your husband has been...extraordinary with Maysilee. I cannot deny that she sees him as a sort of father figure, but it does not follow that there would be an amorous relation between myself and him. The very idea is absurd! You know how he loves you. I would hope that you know how much I love you! Of course I look to be in love and happy. For I am happy here, and there are many people whom I love dearly. As do you…”

She tilts her head and examines me and I burst into more tears. Everything wells up out of me onto her shoulder as we sit in the garden in the late afternoon sunshine. I cry and pour out my heart. The love I feel for Peeta and our child whose existence inside me I grow more certain of with every day that passes. His half sister in an orphanage and his lost mother and his gradually chilling letters. Delly’s words and Sir Robert’s. My anger with myself for falling prey to such pernicious lies.

“Oh my darling friend,” Madge coos and holds onto me. “You are with child! No wonder you are so uneasy.”

“What?” I ask and break free of her embrace. She smiles at me, the expression wistful. “I thought pending motherhood was meant to be a happy condition!”

“In many ways it is, but the fears are real too. I felt it too, with Maysilee. All the fear and the doubt about the future, my ability to love her when I felt no love for her father, not even affection. I barely tolerated him. The terror that I would be a wretched mother. How could I possibly protect her from the worst of the world? And the fear of what our future held for us, it felt... It felt…”

“As old and as immutable as time,” I whisper and she nods.

“Yes. Exactly.” Our eyes meet and she sniffles a little. “I should be angry that you would even entertain the idea of my betraying you so. Or the idea that Peeta could betray you so, but I understand it is not he nor I nor even yourself causing such doubt, but Sir Robert. His presence and your history with him has naturally caused much discord. Even your father seems ill at ease lately. But you know me, and you do know Peeta as well. You must silence the doubt. Only one day more. Then Peeta will be home, and I know you will see in his eyes exactly what you need to see.”

I clasp her hand in mine and squeeze. She leans her head on my shoulder and I sigh happily. It is good to know my friend is exactly as I believed her to be. Quiet, kind, and brave, with a strength to rival any fortress.

“Thank you, Madge.”

“You must come to me sooner with these fears, so they do not torment you so, especially now that you are to be a mother.” I nod in agreement. We sit in silence then. We could continue like this for an age, until Sir Robert wanders into the garden.

“Ladies, I hate to interrupt, but your charming daughter calls for you, my Lady Hargrove.” He sweeps a bow and smiles at us. I stiffen, but Madge squeezes my arm as she stands. She turns to me and gives me a true smile.

“You know what is real, in your heart. Silence the rest,” she says and I nod. Her eyes flash with a bright sort of fire and I draw more strength from her. The strength to stand as she departs and to face Sir Robert.

“Well this is pleasant. Such a charming garden, a lovely lady for company.” My heart hammers in its duplicitous dance and I am quite tired of my body treating me thus. 

I squeeze my eyes shut and attempt to control it. This is not my husband. Why my body insists on responding like it is, I do not know. He has stolen the face of my love and plants doubts in my head where they do not belong. I laugh inside at the thought and Maysilee’s indignant tone when she voiced it a few days ago.

“I am glad to see you enjoying yourself today, Mrs. Mellark. We have all been rather concerned for you. My wife seems to think our presence has caused you some distress.”

With my eyes shut, his voice sharpens in my mind, the inflections wrong. An unfamiliar scent reaches me. Wrong. Wrong. All  _ wrong _ , my mind and my heart protest, just as Maysilee did, and finally, my body listens.

When I open my eyes, I am able to smile at him, although my face feels strained in doing so.

He stands with feet braced apart in a confident pose, a tentative smile on his lips. Good. He should be wary of me. 

“I cannot imagine what would give her such an idea,” I say but the sarcasm of my tone seems lost on Sir Robert.

“Has my brother had opportunity to enjoy your lovely gardens? He was rather fond of the gardens at de Vale, always running off to them when Mother took to scolding one of us.”

“Thank you, Sir Robert,” I say and clench my hands together. “Indeed he has had opportunity to enjoy it, and even to sketch some of it. We were married in the summer, you know.”

“Ah so he still insists on his scribbles.”

“They are much appreciated around here, and I would hardly call them scribbles,” I scold and Sir Robert cringes.

“Of course. I know he is quite talented. I was merely thinking of the many times he was taken to task for drawing instead of focusing on his Latin conjugations.” I’ve no answer and stand still as Sir Robert fidgets. “It is good to be out of the house for a time, after all the rain the past day. Would you care to join me in a stroll through your gardens?”

I do not want to spend any amount of time alone with this confusing, infuriating man. I’d rather stomp on his toes and spit in his tea. How uncharitable of me.

“Very well,” I say instead and begin walking. For Peeta’s sake, and perhaps even a little for Delly’s, I will be polite to this wretch.

“This statue is quite unique. It reminds me of one I saw in Northwest Panem.”

“That is where my mother is from,” I inform him. “She brought the statue with her when she married my father.”

“Such an expense, dragging a ponderous statue that distance,” Sir Robert grumbles and I laugh with no humor.

“My father loves her, always has. He would have dragged a dozen statues from Northwest Panem, if she wished it. Thankfully, this was the only one she desired.” 

“Oh the things one will do for love,” Sir Robert scoffs. I ignore his complaint and continue, recalling a bit of something Delly said just yesterday at tea. 

“When did you have occasion to be in Northwest Panem? Is that where you and Delly honeymooned?”

“Yes,” he answers, his smile strained now. “Although exiled might be a better term for it,” Sir Robert mutters then offers me his arm and motions towards a corner leading into the hedgerows. “Shall we?”

I leave his arm waiting and take the turn unassisted. My slippers crunch on the gravel walk. Sir Robert’s boots right behind. He takes longer strides than I and soon walks beside me, arms folded behind his back. I do not look at him as I continue to walk.

“In all the business of the festival, I’ve not had the chance to ask you… Where then has my brother run off to? You did not exile him, did you?”

“He has run nowhere, nor have I exiled him. He is greatly missed, but his leaving is understood. Peeta answered a plea for help. A friend from the infantry recently and most unexpectedly came into lands in need of some attention.”

Sir Robert makes a strange noise at this. “He runs off to help some grumpy soldier for two weeks when he could be here with you and the lovely Countess?” His comments annoy me, given the implication once again that there is something between Madge and my husband. I control the rage and answer with shocking calm.

“His willingness to help a friend is quite noble, and how would you know his friend’s disposition? I did not even tell you the name of the man.”

“Yes, well. I’ve met enough of them to know they are all grumpy and far too serious, including my brother at times. He was much more pleasant before his time away. Although, he always was insufferably noble, at least he used to be fun when pressed to be so,” Sir Robert says. 

His words only stoke my rage. Used to be fun? How could he say such a thing? Has he any idea of what Peeta’s “time away” entailed? Such a spoiled attitude, acting as though Peeta went away on holiday instead of being banished by their father to the infantry for the temerity of existing. Such arrogance to think Peeta did not endure his service, sweating and bleeding and  _ dying _ in many ways, so far away from any place he’d once called home. And despite the fact that I once called Peeta that exact same thing — insufferably noble — I halt and whirl to face Sir Robert.

“You make it sound like a flaw in his character. To be noble.”

“Not at all. What is, perhaps, the true flaw in his character is leaving such an exquisite bride behind so soon after the wedding and neglecting her in such a shocking manner. Were I your husband--”

“Were  _ you _ my husband,” I say with an inordinate amount of rancor. His face pales and his eyes widen as he realizes what he has done.

“I misspeak.”

“Indeed you do,” I say, anger and some awful sadness mixing inside me as I stare at this man, his face identical to and yet so different from the one I most wish to see. “For you are  _ not  _ my husband.”

And I am, as I told Madge, exceptionally relieved by the fact.

“Come now, you were honest with me that day in the garden. You cannot pretend to a broken heart. You made it quite clear that love was never your quest.”

“Which garden do you speak of, sir?”

“Which garden…” His face shows confusion and he shakes his head, yet his teasing smile remains in place. “The one...at your Uncle’s townhome...when I proposed?”

It is awkward enough for him to be saying it outright, yet I remain silent, waiting for a realisation. A hint of something that never comes. His smile falters. His feet shift. A goose honks overhead. The earth moves forward a small degree.

“Have you already forgotten my proposing? If so, then I truly have reached a low, although it would not be surprising.” He sighs and runs a hand through his hair, removing his hat in the process, and the movement is another sharp pang to my heart. Peeta does the same thing when agitated.

One more day, I remind myself. It is only one more day. A trifle. Nothing. Peeta will be back in a blink and I will regret these maudlin thoughts. Especially once I tell him the secrets I carry now in my heart and in my womb, a secret promise for a happy future for us to share.

“I remember you proposing marriage, and I further remember the shame of it when I learned from your father and Peeta that you had eloped with someone else with no word to me at all.”

“I do apologize for that. Surely you must understand. I could not pause to post a letter. How should I explain that to my Delly? Sorry, darling! Just need to stop here to inform the woman I proposed marriage to this morning that the wedding is off! Such confusion.”

He attempts a smile. A joke then. I am a joke to him. I stare at him until he coughs, finally grows uncomfortable with his words and the implications. He purses his lips and glances at the ground. I use the silence to continue walking. The fresh air is welcome, invigorating even. I piece my resolve back together one step at a time. Sir Robert follows but we remain silent for a time.

“He speaks highly of you. In his letters.”

“He would not insult me, even were he miserable with me,” I say and Sir Robert sighs.

“Indeed that is my great fear. That he would be miserable and suffer in silence. It would not be the first time he did so. But at least admit that the outcome is better for most of us involved,” he says. There’s a thread of concern, almost desperation in his voice, as though he is not sure of it himself and needs me to do the reassuring for him. It makes me wonder if Sir Robert now regrets his actions, or merely the consequences of them. I stand still as stone until he shuffles his feet to a halt beside me. I cannot repair whatever damage he has done to his own and to Delly’s life, but I can take him to task for what he did to me.

“Yes, humiliation and forced betrothal are precisely the outcome I wished.”

“It could not have been so awful. You act as insufferably noble as he. Clearly you and he are well suited and you must forgive me.”

“Why must I?”

“Because despite what you may think of me, I do care a great deal for my brother’s happiness, and it is clear he has lucked into a comfortable and secure life here with you. And I cannot stand the thought of anyone thinking so ill of me.”

“I would not dare to think ill of you. Peeta loves you, and so as you imply, there must be  _ something _ redeeming in your character.”

“There, see!” Robert says triumphantly. 

“And yet you insist on implying that  _ he _ is ignoble and would perhaps develop feelings for my dearest friend...perhaps even act on them?”

“Yes, about that. I did warn you my thoughts were a touch rude. Her behaviour and that of her daughter struck me as odd. It seemed a perfect situation for such a thing, perfectly reasonable given the lack of blood connection. Surely you--”

“I surely do not. Do you suggest family ties must be bound in blood to be real? If you believe that, then you surely know very little of your own beloved brother’s life before you entered it. I know Madge better than you could ever hope to, and I begin to believe that I know Peeta better than you could hope to. You claim to wish to protect him? Then cease suggesting he might betray his own character and break his promises to me, with my dearest friend nonetheless.”

Sir Robert stares at me as the fury flows out of me with the words, replaced with relief. Relief to be saying these things and in fact...believing them. I draw myself down to a less aggressive, more ladylike stance, once more folding my hands together and continuing to walk. Silence reigns for a time, a most welcome quiet, only the sounds of our footsteps.

“You are quite right, madame. I have...acted most abominably,” he finally admits.

“Indeed you have,” I agree and he sighs.

“Then we are in agreement of sorts? You will forgive me for my erroneous thoughts?”

“Why should I?” I should absolve him, for Peeta’s sake. Yet even as I think it, we pass a stone bench and my memory conjures the sweet scents of blossoms in the spring night. So many memories I have tucked away for fear of what they mean, now hazy and obscured by time. There is one more thing yet unresolved between us, though I fear the resolution of this mystery.

A scattered few drops of rain strike the ground. I hold up a hand to catch several as Sir Robert makes a noise of protest. He grasps my elbow and we hurry through the rest of the garden, seeking refuge from the rain beneath the roof of the verandah just as the sky opens, pouring its contents on the world.

“More rain will make the roads impassable,” I mutter.

“Indeed. Mrs. Mellark, I do apologise for my behaviour. It seems I am in need of another of my brother’s lectures. He was rather fond of preaching when we were younger. It’s a wonder he didn’t take the cloth as a profession. I will beg him to spare you at least. Such lovely ears should not be tortured so,” Sir Robert says with that smile that no doubt melts all the knees in Capitol, and yet I find it no longer affects me. How odd. It is then that I notice...his lips pull up evenly when he smiles. Not lopsided.

Another memory leaps into focus, unbidden and unwanted. A blonde head tilted towards me. Blue eyes bright with mirth. An asymmetrical mask covering...the left side of a face. Yes I am certain it was the left side. A peculiar design for a mask that I had thought was meant to match my dress at the time, but now I wonder if there was another reason and plumb my memories further… 

A pair of red stained lips curling in a lopsided smile.

Peeta’s smile is lopsided… is it not? Have I imposed his now beloved smile upon the face of the man in the mask in a fit of wishful thinking? How sad that I cannot recall for certain in this moment. He’s been gone far too long for my liking. I cannot seem to distinguish memory from fantasy and push them both aside rather than sort them. Instead I shall deal with what is in front of me.

I shrug to show my indifference to Sir Robert’s charms. In truth, his flattery does warm the heart, but it is fleeting and meaningless without the constancy of devotion behind it. The steadiness that Peeta brings to everything in many ways is what lends credence to all of his flowery praise of me. 

“Why have you come here, Sir Robert? To Everdeen?”

“I wished to visit my brother. I’ve not seen him in months. Have I any other need?”

“As long as that is your sole reason,” I say as we continue to stand, observing the rain rather than retreating once more to the confines of the house. 

I watch the gardner hurry up the path, a basket overflowing with blooms, covered with a cloth on her arm. She curtsies and hurries inside, the scent of the flowers trailing on the air behind her and an image, vivid and sweet returns to me. 

The cloak of night and soft lips on my scars. Merciful heaven. Guilt such as I have never known surges up inside me, hand in hand with latent desires. It should not matter. Peeta and I… we are happy, I believe, or at least on the path to happiness. We have begun to build something together, grown together in a way I had scarcely dared hope for when I set out to secure a marriage. I do not wish to jeopardize it and yet I feel an unquenchable need to know for certain.

The man in the mask...such a plague to me all those months ago. I have rarely thought of him lately. In my mind I had divided them into three men to better deal with the confusion and heartache. There is Peeta, now my husband and my love, a man I trust and rely upon, the father to my unborn child. There is Sir Robert...a man to whom I was briefly engaged, although I knew so little of him, and now realise ‘twould have been disastrous for me to wed. 

And third there is the man in the mask, someone I felt enamored with for a night or perhaps longer, who I think represented to me the hope that I might not have to endure a marriage without affection, without trust, without...love, though I only sought one of those at the time. The man in the mask represented perhaps some sort of fantasy, an illusion that I might still have all three. And I have achieved that dream against such terrible odds. I should let him go, as I long ago let Sir Robert go, and yet...I cannot.

The problem lies in the fact that these three men do not exist well in my mind at the same time, although I know that two of them must be one and the same. If it was Sir Robert in the mask, he romanced me most shamefully for a man on the cusp of an elopement with another. Used me most shamefully, but ‘twould make it easier to let the man in the mask go. All of it would then have been a lie, an act, and none of it real.

And if it was Peeta? I do not know. I admit that while it would be easier to relinquish the man in the mask were it Robert instead, I nearly hope it was Peeta, because I cannot bear the thought that he may have lied to me about it after we were engaged, because those feelings that sprung to life inside of me that night with the man in the mask… I feel so many of them now with Peeta. 

It feels almost a betrayal of him to have felt so for another man, and yet...at the time I believed it to be Robert and would that not be a betrayal of Peeta as well? How could I betray him when there was nothing between Peeta and I at the time of the masquerade, nothing at all save a pair of boots, a questionable rescue or two, and some peppered tea. And what of the betrayal of  _ my _ heart that occurred that night? 

For there to be betrayal, there would need be trust first. 

It is such a muddled puzzle in my head, and I begin to feel a headache forming. This is why my brain conjured the three man solution. Think of them separately and I need not consider the implications of that night. For even if my hopes are realised and it turns out that it was Peeta in the mask… why then would he have kissed me, and with such intimacy and passion? Surely he could have shared a glass of wine with me, chatted about the portraits, and then been on his way. That would have been distraction enough from Sir Robert’s absence, and I would have remained unaware of the elopement, unable to raise a cry of suspicion until the following morn or perhaps even later. Why take the added step of kissing me? 

Delly’s words rise up as an explanation and yet my mind is as hazy as the rain soaked world before me right now. I cannot see to the end of the garden and I do not know. I do not know and I hate that this now arises to make me doubt my feelings for my husband when I have only so recently dealt with a different source of doubt.

“Mrs. Mellark,” Sir Robert intrudes upon my reverie. “Tell me what I can do to earn your forgiveness. Peeta would not wish any sort of conflict between us as we are both important to him.”

“You wish forgiveness?”

“Of course. My brother is...well he is the perfect brother to me. Perhaps you do not understand. As an eldest sibling, you would be the example for your sister. I, as the youngest, inevitably have the successes of the older shoved in my face. With Peeta, however, there was always… Well it was different with him. Father would never have used him as an example for me to follow, even though he is older. The expectations placed on me, on all of us save for Peeta, could often feel suffocating. And our older brothers, Ethan and Henry they expected as much out of me as Father did. But Peeta, he was not just my brother, he was… he is my friend. One of the few I can truly trust and be myself around without fearing recrimination, save for the occasional insufferably noble reminder that I know is right, even if it annoys me to hear it. I tease him for his righteous attitude, but he still cares for me and attempts to protect me, even from myself, no matter how many times I disappoint him.”

I can only stand in silence for a time. 

“Do you understand what I mean?” he prompts.

“I do.” And I believe that I do understand. Such a sad life they must have led surrounded by all the comforts and education that money could buy and none of the affections of a real family until they found one another. How sad that it was only with great loss for Peeta that were able to do so. And now Sir Robert seeks absolution from me before his brother returns and finds himself once more disappointed.

“A relief,” Sir Robert says with a smile. 

As I gaze up at him, I cannot help but catalogue the differences not just in their characters, but in their features. Beside the most noticeable -- Peeta’s scars -- I am certain Sir Robert’s jaw line is rounder, softer. His eyes, while usually full of mirth, carry little depth and no capacity for intensity. His hair borders on foppish. Peeta’s nose is dusted with freckles that speak of his time out of doors while Robert’s remains clear of markings. Peeta’s hands are calloused and scarred from labour and a rougher life while Robert’s remain apparently smooth and pampered.

Perhaps I imagine it yet I am almost certain Peeta’s shoulders carry more breadth and strength in them, and while my observations might be superficial, they only add to my growing belief that while the outcome was initially messy and uncomfortable for all involved, Sir Robert has done me a great favor in eloping with Delly. I cannot, however, bring myself to sever the bonds between brothers, nor even cause deliberate tension, not when I know how important they are to one another, despite the wrongs Sir Robert may have visited upon me.

“I wish my brother happy in life, and you as well. So please, I beseech you. What need I do to earn your forgiveness for my callous behavior in abandoning you so that another more worthy might wed you instead?”

I scowl at the man. Even though his words are accurate in a way, as well as a backwards sort of compliment, I would not recommend his behaviour, nor praise it. But as he gives me an earnest, pleading look to rival Maysilee’s, an idea comes to me.

“You will take better care of your wife. I rather like her.”

“Indeed. I should do that anyways.”

“And...tell me what is your favourite colour.”

“My favourite--” he chuckles and his smile extends to his eyes now. “What a Peeta sort of question to ask, but if you must know, it is red. My favourite colour in all the world is red. Do I earn your forgiveness now?”

“I will consider it.”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

I awaken to thunder. A great crack of it causing my pulse to leap and my body to do the same. I sit up, momentarily stunned as I stare out my window. Buckets upon buckets of rain pour from a churning autumnal sky. It lashes the upper panes on my windows and invades the room through the open lower half. The wind howls, twisting the wet drapes in a frightening dance. Lightning rends the sky in brilliant scars of light that turn the night into day, the sky to a soft violet for a second right before another great crack of thunder hurls me from the bed and into action.

I slam the window shut and cry in distress as my skin responds to the frigid rain on the floor beneath my feet. My feet slide over floorboards and I frantically move to stand on the rug, teeth chattering at the cold, rain soaked fabric of my shift now clinging to my calves. The chill permeates my body. I shiver, hugging myself and then resting my head on the sash.

Another bolt of lighting illuminates the gardens below, the river of water rushing along the paths. The accompanying crack of thunder shakes the house.

Travel home today will be difficult. Unsafe. Perhaps even impossible. Peeta may not be able to keep his promise to me.

With a sigh, I move to the fireplace and add a log, stoking the blaze in the grate back to something that might warm my now cold frame and dry my shift. I curl up on the sofa and listen to the rain. I do not bother mopping up the mess. It is my own fault, my fanciful whims getting the better of me. Peeta prefers to sleep with the window open, and so I have chosen to continue to do so in his absence.

The storm rages outside as I stare into the fire and my eyes droop. I am so very tired. 

When I wake, it is with a start and confusion. A warm blanket covers me and fresh kindling is piled beside the grate. A tea service sits on a nearby table, a curl of steam drifting up into the air from the spout. The sky outside has lightened considerably, indicating that it is morning. I struggle to stand and throw the window open, gasping at the cold bite of air that sweeps in and embraces me. The honking of geese overhead reaches me as I squint into the bright sunlight, my eyes relaxing as great, puffy white clouds race across the azure sky, momentarily blocking out the light and what little heat the sun provides. Rainwater drips from the eaves of the house and puddles in the garden below. If I hold my breath, I can hear the faint rushing of the stream in the neighboring woods.

Peeta is meant to be home today.

My heart skips at the thought. I linger over the tea. I dress and then change my mind, discarding one gown for another with an urgency that disturbs me. When I finally leave my chambers, it is well past the hour of breakfast. Everyone else in the house seems to have eaten and moved on to whatever amusements they might find in the now pleasant weather. I eat then wrap myself in a warm coat and sit on the verandah, attempt to read and fail.

Finally, I wander into the study, ringing for tea and warming my hands by the fire as I wait. I mull over everything said to me the past few days and despite the mounting evidence, I still doubt. Doubt and doubt and doubt until the tea is brought and Mary retreats and the fire pops loudly. 

A memory sparks to life in the blaze. A letter. One I never read and thought to burn.

I scramble to the desk and search the drawers, casting aside bits of wax and broken quills, scraps of paper until I find it, all the way in the back of the drawer, forgotten for months. The letter Peeta gave to me the day after we were betrothed. I sink into the chair with it shaking in my hands, the weight of it pushing me deep into the cushions. It is thick, several sheets at least. I breathe heavily and rip open the seal. The top two sheets slide askew as I unfold the thing and I catch sight of the corner of a drawing.

For one moment, I am immobilised. Frozen in my seat and then I separate the sheets with Peeta’s writing on them and set them aside to stare at the drawing. Only it is not one drawing, but rather several crammed onto the sheet. Three pages of them. A mad, disorganised ejection of images from his mind, as though he feared that if he did not commit them to charcoal and paper as soon as possible, he might forget them. I know it is his work, as I would recognise his touch anywhere. And they are almost entirely of me, wearing a mask and a gown with one bare shoulder. Gazing at portraits, laughing, staring up at the artist with a teasing gleam in my eyes, weilding a fan, comforting the girl with red hair and red lips.

He has drawn the entire evening I spent with the man in the mask in exquisite detail. It is difficult to ignore this last piece of proof. A lightness burgeons upwards in my chest, threatening to choke me with something like tears and hope.

The mask, I realise. The truth is in the mask. I grab the first sheets of the letter as well and race upstairs, leaving my tea on the desk to cool as I search my room until I pull the mask I wore that fateful night free of its confines and set it on the table, next to the drawings.

“Oh!” I gasp and sink into the sofa.

Perfect. 

He has rendered the mask in perfect detail, the intricate designs painted on the plaster, the whorls of color, the shading about the eyes, the curvature over my forehead, the fall of the feathers and the cowl over my shoulder. The minute details are too faithful, too accurate, to have been relayed by word of mouth. Whoever drew this… he saw me wearing this very mask. He saw me wearing it, and I have only ever worn it the one night before hiding it away and leaving it locked out of sight.

That is when I am finally able to accept it, to know without a doubt in my heart, my soul, and my mind… Peeta is my man in the mask.

**_~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~_ **


	22. Chapter 22

_ Miss Everdeen, _

_ I cannot even pretend to understand what you must be feeling right now. I am certain none of it is charitable towards myself nor towards my relations, and I could not fault you for thinking so. I can only apologise a thousand times and hope that given time, your thoughts and feelings towards me might change, might soften perhaps. _

_ I scarcely know what to write, an unusual predicament for me. I so rarely lose my way in words and yet today, I stumble through them like a fog, flounder in waves of them which I could not hope to swim. _

_ ~~ _

“Oh these are lovely,” I say softly, grasping several beautiful, vibrant orange dahlias by their stems, lifting them from the basket Mrs. Walters, our gardner, brought in earlier. Tonight is the final evening of the Harvest Festival. The sun shines still, though it now begins to sink inexorably towards the horizon, eventually to drop out of sight and bringing the day to a close, having warmed the earth for most of the day and yet making no progress in drying the land of the rain that doused it for the past day and a half.

I am swimming, swimming, swimming in months old words and move the flowers through the air, slowly towards the ivy crown in my lap. I imagine the petals of the blooms parting the cool, clear waters of the words I have now memorised, I read them so many times this afternoon.

~~

_ Your distaste today at the idea of marrying me was quite evident, although perhaps not unsurprising. Yet I hope to change that, to convince you that I am not a monster and am perhaps someone who could be worthy of your regard at least. I do not expect to do so with this letter. I can only hope that it is a start. _

_ Perhaps I may be a bastard by birth, but I endeavor to live my life in such a way that I am not one in behaviour, in actions. Sometimes, I fail, most grievously. I failed several nights ago. _

~~

Madge laughs, twisting the stem of a pink flower through the ivy in her hands and showing the work to Maysilee. Prim helps Delly with twisting her own length of ivy into a crown. It is a custom to wear such flower crowns adorned with the blooms of autumn and stalks of wheat on the last day of the Harvest Festival at Everdeen. I had almost forgotten about it until Madge had asked. Now we sit on the verandah, a circle of ladies seated around us, our dresses soft islands of colors with flowers and bits of green strewn between us. 

~~

_ If you are reading this, then it means I have already made my confession and you know, or rather I have at least told you, that it was not Robert you met at the masquerade but me, the lowly bastard son who then proceeded to prove himself to be one indeed. _

_ I console myself that what I did was not out of the ordinary for a couple in courtship and most importantly that what I did, I did to protect my brother. Indeed that is true...to a degree. For some time now, the Marquis has been after Robert to marry -- someone, anyone, so long as she were acceptable in the Marquis’ eye. He feared his youngest son becoming an itinerant bachelor, a rake or at the least a insipid flirt, and leaving the line only to Ethan to continue. You know already of Henry and Angelica’s plans to only adopt children, and of Ethan’s large number of daughters and single son. What you may perhaps be unaware of is that Ethan has already announced their intent to have no more children. As a bastard, any children I sure do not count in his eyes, which leaves Robert responsible for the spares. _

_ How cold and terrible we must seem to you, my sire already planning out your future, and you would be right to feel such fury. The Marquis, in all his infinite kindness, saw fit to lay some of the blame for Robert’s elopement at your feet. He had such hopes that you might snare his son and then when you did not...well he arrogantly assumed the fault must lie with you rather than his own precious son, where it belongs. _

_ ~~ _

Six orange dahlias adorn my crown. Six bright blooms of irrepressible hope. My mind accepts that the recent weather may make a return home impossible for Peeta. The post did not even arrive as expected today. And yet...I hope. He promised me, and while I would not wish him to come to harm in keeping his promise, I desperately hope he is able to do so safely.

~~

_ In some ways I wonder if the Marquis almost meant to punish us both in forcing the issue. You for not securing Robert’s undying love, me for not seeing the superficial nature of his interest in you. I’ve no way of proving it so I shall let it go and endeavor to make the best of the situation in which we find ourselves. _

_ You already know that I myself had reservations about Robert courting you. My primary misgiving being that his affections seemed stronger than yours. You are already aware of my concern that you selected him for his purse.  _

_ Here I must confess my motives to be already muddled, before you even so much as smiled at me that night. I believed his courtship of you to be real. I believed him to be falling in love with you. I believed it with great conviction until the moment his valet confessed to Robert’s whereabouts. Although the poor man did not know with whom Robert had eloped, I had my suspicions. We all did, and it turned out that we were correct. But that night, before I knew for certain, I could not help but wonder...had my perceptions of my brother been so wrong? Had my own interest in you hindered my ability to discern his feelings? Had I reason to nourish my own foolish hopes for your regard of myself in his sudden absence? Or had he eloped with you? We could not be certain and needed to ascertain the truth. _

_ I arrived at the ball that night, intending only to converse with you, if you were even present, to distract you long enough to make you believe Robert still in town rather than already several hours on his way to Northwest Panem, and then to leave you. In that way, it was hoped that you could not cry foul before we could recover him, bring him home, and convince him to honor instead his courtship of you...or we would know that he had eloped with you, which while not the ideal wedding the Marquis had in mind, would be better, to his way of thinking, than the alternative. _

_ I did not wish my brother humiliated and cut off from the family. I wished him happy, and if he were eloping with the person I suspected to be his partner… then I was no longer certain that I wished to stop him, for both their sakes. I knew them to be in love once, for many years. Perhaps I had been mistaken about his feelings and he was in love with her still. If not, I hoped that perhaps both of you had been taken with love for one another and chose to elope. Foolish, perhaps, but at least then you would not be hurt. In this way, my motives were at least in some part altruistic. _

_ ~~ _

I sit in a chair as Mary brushes through my hair and asks how I wish it styled for the night.

“Unbound,” I tell her and she smiles.

“Like a pagan goddess of old,” she says with a nod. “You glow like I expect one of them might. Mr. Mellark will be knocked clear off his feet when he sees you.”

I relax into the brush strokes and swim in the words, letting myself sink into their depth. I do not ask her which Mr. Mellark she means, for there is only one who matters.

_ ~~ _

_ But that does not change the fact that I was partially dreading seeing you but more so...hoping to see you. If my motives were at least partly altruistic, there were parts of them that were not, that were utterly selfish.  _

_ Prior to the masquerade, I had believed your feelings towards my brother to be rather tepid and based more in finance than the heart. My own feelings were more complicated and so I had chosen to ignore them, perhaps to my own detriment. I convinced myself of the wholeness of my motives when in fact… they were not. I found myself almost hoping that Robert had truly eloped with his longtime love...perhaps then he might have a chance at a loving marriage and I might have a chance to spend more time in your presence without conflicting emotions of protecting Robert and being enchanted by you. Without him present to necessitate my lurking in the shadows unwanted. If he had eloped with someone other than you, I selfishly hoped that the door to your heart would not be slammed upon my face. I yearned for entrance to that sacred space. _

_ This knowledge will likely do nothing to soothe the sting you yourself must be feeling today. I apologise if I seem callous, I mean only to explain why this happened, in the hopes that one day it will be enough to help you heal from whatever wounds my brother and I have caused you. _

_ ~~ _

“There,” Mary declares, stepping back so that we both might admire her work in the mirror. My unbound hair falls in gentle waves over my shoulders and back. She has braided two small sections from my temples to the back of my head, then woven those together, a means of keeping my hair from my face. “Beautiful. Now for your dress.”

I stand from my seat and lift my arms to don the dress she holds for me. We work together to arrange fabric and layers until I am satisfied and able to slide my arms into the snug sleeves. This dress laces in the back and so I stand still as she works.

~~

_ One part of me wished only to serve as a distraction, a shield for my brother until he could return to you. And the other part of me… the other part of me recalled the swift wit of your words as you sat distressed in the mud, the worried response of your household when you were safely returned, the clear way everyone around you admired and cared for you, and the pert way your nose turned up when you sneered at me and reminded me of my manners. The spark of your spirit and the fire in your eyes. That part of me which remembered the bite of pepper in tea, the proud defenses of a woman forced into a less than ideal situation, but who would not be cowed by it, and the grace with which she set about attempting to determine her own fate as much as possible...that part of me which could not forget you nor the way I felt in your presence had been odious and admittedly envious of his own brother, for that brother was able to court you when I wished to and could not.  _

_ Although as the masquerade continued, I began to suspect his feelings for you to be significantly less than what I had previously thought, and yours for him to be more. I found myself facing a new, and perhaps in many ways worse conundrum. Now I faced the likelihood that I was complicit in your broken heart and shattered hopes, a possibility that now seems confirmed in your reaction to our betrothal.  _

_ A true bastard at last. _

_ ~~ _

The final touch is placed upon my head. A woven crown of green ivy and orange dahlias. Turning towards the mirror to examine the effect of my appearance, I laugh as Prim and Madge and Maysilee make sounds of appreciation from the sofa where they have crowded, all awaiting the completion of my toilet apparently.

“Should you not be getting dressed?” I ask and they shake their heads.

“Pointless.”

“You outshine the stars, Katniss.”

“And you will surely outshine all of us.”

Maysilee agrees that I am beautiful, declaring that my smile is made of the stars. 

I scold them ineffectually, for I am smiling like a loon, and send them scurrying, all of them giggling like girls. Then I take one more look in the glass, hands flat on my stomach as I caress over my belly. Nerves and pregnancy sickness turn my insides to crashing waves and roiling surf, yet I cannot help but think that somehow, this would have happened anyways.

~~

_ Then the worst thing happened. You smiled at me. Flirted, and it was like a crack of thunder across my skull. Somewhere between your fan on my chest as you scolded me for being late and the garden steps, I lost my way completely. I lost my way in your eyes and your smile and forgot my reason for being there. I meant to pretend to be Robert, to lie to you, to keep myself distant through a mask of pretend identity… and then I forgot how. I forgot even my reason for being there with you. _

_ I could not now distinguish for you which moments during that night I consciously attempted to emulate my brother and which moments I forgot entirely what I was about other than simply enjoying the company of an extraordinary and exquisite person. And Katniss...you are extraordinary and exquisite. If I had any hope of escaping your effect, it was destroyed that night.  _

_ I forgot to guard my own heart and selfishly took pleasure in the freedom of wearing a mask. That night, I gave of myself, safely hidden from you. Only myself set before you with my brother’s name as a shield from your censure, and I enjoyed the freedom to act around you as I had long wished to, as well as enjoyed your response to me immensely. I convinced myself even as you opened to me that I acted as a man besotted with you and courting you would do, and you gave so willingly and openly of yourself. I could not bring myself to turn away from you. For the first time in my life, that night, I was glad to be a near twin copy of Robert. _

_ Until your simple remark informing me that my brother had proposed to you only that morning brought me straight back to reality and condemnation. I was reminded of the true nature of our connection. The impossibility of it because I had misled you, and my brother had already proposed to you, which I had no knowledge of until you told me, then fled with another. I was reminded that anything I believed I saw in your eyes, heard in your voice, or felt in your kiss, was not meant for me. And still, bastard that I am, I claimed one last kiss for myself, though it may console you to know that I regret that last kiss far more than the others, for it was truly false. _

_ None of what I told you that evening, however, was an intentional falsehood, save for my allowing you to continue believing me to be my brother. In no way do I expect my honesty now to absolve me of my perfidy then. It is all so confusing even to me that I expect it shall make me appear even more loathsome in your eyes, but I am willing to pay the price of my actions. Indeed I already have begun to do so…  _

_ ~~ _

The evening air grows chill and I am grateful for the heavy stockings I chose for tonight, the woolen dress and the thick shawl tied about my shoulders. I order torches lit, lining the lane and the courtyard, flanking the stable doors. The recent rains make both fires and Peeta’s return unlikely, and yet… I have hope. Should he manage to return, I would have his way home illuminated, clear in the night. I gaze down the lane, empty and shadowed but glowing with warmth. I imagine it beckoning him home, to Everdeen, to me.

When the task is done, I join the festivities, standing on the fringes and letting my eyes roam over the heads of those already assembled.

There is laughter and music, dancing and food piled high on trenchers. The refreshments slowly dwindle as the day progresses into night. Casks of cider and of ale are emptied and replaced with fresh ones.

~~

_ … For the way you looked at me that night, the way you spoke to me… it was how I have always imagined a lady in love or one who has just begun to fall in love to look. It was something I craved to a frightening amount, and from you, it was heaven to me.  _

_ But it was not meant for me to even see, certainly not for me to receive. You laid your heart out for the man you believed yourself engaged to, and I did not correct your misconceptions. I was a thief that night, and it was all that I could have wished for. You drew me in deeper until I was drowning in my lies and your lips, with no will to end it. My weakness, my fault, and it is now my burden to bear how selfishly I accepted what I desired from you, encouraged you to give more, when none of it was mine to receive. In receiving it under such false circumstances, I know I may lose every chance to truly deserve that very look I so crave from you. _

_ ~~ _

Jo partners with a buxom widow and sends us a lascivious wink. Sir Robert obliges every woman and girl left lingering unpartnered. He even manages to dance with his wife several times. She smiles prettily and surprisingly has him laughing with great mirth. Perhaps they will sort out whatever issues plague their own marriage. For Delly’s sake, I hope they do.

I stand along the fringes of the crowd, laughing with Madge, with my sister, even with Delly as we observe the dancing between their own partnered turns about the floor. It is a constant tide, an ever changing sea of faces. While the three of them are swept into the dance repeatedly, I decline all offers. My partner has not yet arrived.

~~

_ And yet… I have hope. I will do everything in my power to deserve your regard. I will wait, whether you read this letter and answer it or not. I will endure whatever lectures you aim at me, for I truly deserve them. The mending of your heart need come first before there can be so much as a drop of trust between us. I understand this, and so I will wait. I will wait, and I will hope to see that expression in your eyes again one day, meant for me this time, with no lies or masks between us. I already know that it will be worth every second of the wait. _

_ Yours, _

_ ~Peeta~ _

_ ~~ _

At first reading, his letter gave rise to such boiling fury. Yet it passed within a blink, leaving me clutching the letter and reliving the past with new eyes. Not quite nostalgia nor longing but rather, a sort of acceptance. He cannot change the Marquis or Robert. He cannot change the past, nor can I, but we can affect our future together in the choices we now make. I choose now to not allow the past to poison our future.

I wish to stretch the day into an unending bow of orange, to give my husband more time to return to me. The sun cares not for my wishes. It persists in sinking from the sky. The last of the light fades. Maysilee and many of the other children are sent to bed, protesting the whole way that they are not tired, begging for one more treat or one more dance.

With night upon us, I clap along to the songs, smiling at Madge when she returns from seeing Maysilee put to bed. She partners with Jo and laughs joyously. The night wears on, inexorable towards midnight. But with each dance that ends and brings no sign of Peeta, the more I worry. It grows late and dark, the roads that are questionable in the light, are treacherous at night. 

“The night grows late,” Sir Robert says, standing beside me and echoing my own thoughts, offering a mug steaming with cider. A peace offering, perhaps, or an acknowledgment of what we share right now, worry for someone we both love. For Peeta.

“Thank you,” I murmur and accept the mug. It cannot hurt to be polite, although I am still leery of him.

“You do not dance, Mrs. Mellark?”

“I do, if there is an agreeable partner.”

“You wait for my brother,” he says. I drink my cider and hope my cheeks do not reveal my blush. Am I so transparent then? Perhaps it is the orange flowers in my hair, or perhaps how my eyes are continually drawn in the direction of the house and stables, where Peeta would be coming from. “He may not return tonight.”

“I can wait. It will be worth every second of the wait.”

“Perhaps, but even if he does return tonight...he does not dance. Not since…” Not since he lost his leg. I lift my chin and stubbornly ignore Sir Robert’s words. For I know that as long as the conditions are right, Peeta can and does in fact dance. He will dance with me. 

“I cannot abide a lady sitting idle when there is dancing to be done.” I mutter a protest as Sir Robert removes the mug from my hand. I reach for its warmth and instead find my fingers within the grasp of his gloved hand. With a broad smile, he pulls me onto the floor. I’ve no idea where my cider disappeared to, and rather resent his presumptions.

He twirls me once, into line with the other women. Leevy Webster smiles at me and comments on what a fine night it is for dancing.

“Yes,” I agree, wondering how rude it would be to storm from the line right now, but the music starts and I’ve no choice but to dance. I attempt to scowl at Sir Robert and remain above all of it. 

I nearly succeed.

But the laughter about me as I progress through the steps proves infectious. I am smiling by the end of the dance, although ready to make excuses.

“I insist, Mrs. Mellark! At least finish the set. You should enjoy the evening and the company of so many happy tenants,” Sir Robert declares. “Surely your husband would not wish you to deny yourself such simple pleasures on his account!” The music precludes any argument as the dancers change partners and the music begins anew.

We dance, and before I know what is happening, I am enjoying myself. Sir Robert is relentless in spreading cheer, it would seem. When the dance finishes, he insists I stay for another with a new partner. Then another.

“The last for me,” I tell him when he once more claims me as his partner and he concedes.

“Only because you are smiling at last, Mrs. Mellark.”

It is a rather vigorous dance this time, with much bouncing on our toes and changing of partners, spinning about until I am breathless and dizzy. A strange darkening occurs on the edges of my vision. I lose my balance right at the end. Sir Robert catches me and Madge hurries over as the last notes fade, met with applause.

“Here, come sit,” Madge urges and guides me through the crowds.

“Is she alright?” Sir Robert asks. I hear other murmurs and Madge sending Leevy to fetch my mother.

“I am fine,” I insist. A cold glass is handed to me and I am ordered to drink. I sip slowly as my heart rate returns to normal and my head ceases to spin. “Is that expected?”

“Not unheard of, darling,” Mother whispers and brushes back some of my hair.

“No more dancing then,” I say to scattered chuckles. At least not for me. The music plays on, and other couples dance. Someone requests Madge as a partner and I insist she go. Mother leaves, needed by someone else, only after assuring herself that I am no longer dizzy. I finish my cold cider and hand over my cup to be cleaned. 

My father sits with me for a few minutes and while I am glad of his company, a melancholy still creeps in. He takes my hand in his and does not offer platitudes, only offers silent companionship and understanding. His acceptance of my fears, the fact that he does not dismiss them, makes them more manageable. So when he kisses my temple and is drawn to the floor with my mother again, I am able to happily let him go.

So happy they are, my parents. So in love, even after all their years together, a finely tuned pairing as they move and act in easy harmony. Like the winds and the currents.

As the hour draws close to midnight, I wander through the crowd and am overcome with a need for quiet, for a moment alone. The stables, I decide and make my way up the slight hill to their warmth, snatching two apples from the trestle tables as I go. I have been neglecting Sagittaria.

The torches cast a cheery glow about the stables. As soon as I enter, Sagittaria huffs and comes to her door, lifting her head over it and whickering at me.

“Yes, my darling, I know,” I say and present her treat. She huffs into my palm but accepts the apple. I murmur to her as she eats. “It is inconvenient, this being with child, everyone concerned for me. You would not throw me, would you my darling? Just a short ride would do us both a bit of good.”

She snorts and I sigh.

“Except your mother would have my hide. Then yours. Then Sagittaria’s, and if anything were left of any of us…” I turn slightly at the sound of Jo’s voice. She brushes the coat of a nag used often for chores around the farm. Of course I haven’t got the stables all to myself. I should have known better than to come here, although I wonder at her working so late rather than enjoying the festival.

An equine nose pushes against my arm and I turn towards the gentle brown eyes staring at me expectantly, almost accusingly.

“Oh Cicero, no need to stare at me so. I brought a second,” I say and produce the second apple. “In truth it was meant for Diablo but we shan't tell him. I like you better anyways,” I whisper and run my hand over his dappled coat, up and down his nose, between his brows and then up to his mane between his ears as he munches. Johanna coughs and I gasp, spinning as soon as Cicero has finished his treat.

“Why did you not say something?”

“It was amusing to see how long it would take you to figure it out, Kitten.”

“Where is he?” I ask, and wonder that I did not see him at the festival. Why he did not come to me. Cicero has been cared for and safely stabled which tells me he has been home for some time.

“Oh that information has a price.”

“Johanna!”

“He’s with that dandified prat of a brother of his and neither of them seemed too happy to see one another, if you catch my meaning--”

“The point!” I shout. 

“I can’t leave this poor nag untended to eavesdrop on them, but I want to know if and how Peeta has finally let his brother have it.”

“Done,” I agree without thinking it over. 

He is home. Here, safe, with me. Finally. And that is all I care about right now. In a moment I will be in his arms. I can see his smile, hear his laugh. Oh heavens, I will be able to kiss him.

“They were headed towards the house,” Johanna says, the words barely out of her mouth before I break into a run. A mad dash across the courtyard. Into the house as I shout his name to no answer. Our rooms are dark and unoccupied, almost eerie. The drapes dance in the cool autumn breeze from the open window. Embers glow in the grate, the only source of light, and fresh wood stands sentry, ready to become a hearty blaze when someone returns. But there is no sign of Peeta.

Confused, I return downstairs. Perhaps he wished a bath before joining me. Yes, that must be it. He wanted to refresh himself after a long journey. I slide through the kitchens on my way to the bathing room, halting when I hear the murmur of voices coming from outside. I move towards the door leading into the vegetable and herb garden meant for the kitchen staff’s use. Two torches glow on either side of the door, turning the glass in the windows to prisms of midnight and orange, a macabre dance as I pause with my hand on the lever, finally able to distinguish the raised voices.

“You are complaining? What could you possibly complain about?” Sir Robert asks.

“You caused a mess, and I was left to patch it up!” Peeta answers, true anger in his voice.

“Please. You’ve no room to complain. You’ve somehow come out of this whole mess smelling like a rose. Everyone on this estate thinks the sun shines out your ass.” My hand flies up to my mouth at Robert’s coarse language and embittered tone.

“Again, you caused this mess. At least accept responsibility for your actions--”

“I am not asking much!”

“Ask the Marquis. You were always quite skilled at charming both funds and forgiveness from him.”

“Father has refused. Repeatedly. So have Ethan and Henry. My charms seem to have run out with them. You are all I have left, Peeta.”

“So you crawl here to beg as a last resort.”

“It is not as though you are struggling. Peeta, please. We are brothers. You suffer, I suffer with you, remember?”

“That agreement has always been lopsided.”

“Not by my fault, it hasn’t! You never complained about it before!”

I shift my position, closer to the window, dangerously close. A heavy sigh reaches my ear and through the fractured light, I finally see him. My heart hammers in answer. Air rushes in and out of my lungs as I gasp silently for it. I remove my hand from my mouth, for it makes my breathing louder.

He looks tired but well. His hair is windblown and wild, his cheeks and ears scorched red by the cool autumn wind. He wears no hat and I cannot see down past his shoulders. Despite all that, despite the unfamiliar grim expression on his face, I would know him anywhere. I now know what Delly meant when she said she could always tell the difference. I drink him in, even the stern look on his face, the livid clench of his jaw. “Fine.”

“Thank you,” Robert says with great relief. “Truly, it is a relief to know I can still, always rely on you. It has been terrible! Exiled up north with nothing to do for months, no diversions or entertainments, not so much as a race track for a bit of sport. Then being summoned back home with no notice. Dresses cost a fortune, did you know, and Delly had nothing suitable to meet Father and Mother as my wife. I had to see her completely made over! Father lecturing me at every chance and ordering me about like I am still a school boy. Mother has been worse than Father, if you can believe that, crying every time I walk into a room as though I were dead, not married. Oh and Father is pissed beyond reason with you. He thinks you are avoiding him.”

“How intuitive of him,” Peeta sneers. “I  _ am _ avoiding him.” 

“You’ve got to show your face there sometime. But I digress. De Vale became insufferable. We had to leave, but there is only so long one can impose upon friends. And I promised Delly to send Elijah to school in England, if I could, which I can’t. I’d no idea how much it would cost! You’ve no idea what it’s been like, not knowing where the next meal comes from or if we shall even have a roof over our heads for the winter, always depending on someone else’s charity. She can barely find any work with all the jaunting about the country we’ve had to do. All the while, you sit here on your fat happy farm with your lovely wife, all comfortable and warm, so I can see why you avoid home, but it can only last so long. I swear this is the only time I’ll beg money from you and… Peeta?”

He stops speaking and I already know why. Robert’s words so carelessly uttered. A dark shadow has fallen across Peeta’s face, because it is Robert who has no idea.

“You think I’ve no idea what that’s like? Being poor? Cast out of my home? Starving? Desperate? Bounced from one temporary residence to the next? Depending on the charity and goodwill of another.” He says the last two -- charity and goodwill -- as though the words taste foul. Perhaps they do. Perhaps they were made to taste foul by his own kin.

“Well…” Robert fumbles and Peeta silences him with a shake of his head.

“We share features, Robert. A sire, a date of birth separated by two years. Not a history, not our childhoods. I come from a different life than you. What the hell do you think life was like in that year for me? For my mother?”

“Yes, I know. I’m sorry, I just...forgot.” Robert tries to laugh it off, but the sound is rather hollow.

“Forgot? Christ. I suppose you forgot that you proposed marriage to Katniss only that morning when you chose to elope with Delly that very same day. How did you plan on keeping two wives if you cannot even manage the one?”

“Are we back to that then?” Robert moans and heaves a great sigh. Peeta begins to pace as they trade rapid barbs.

“We never  _ finished _ with that.”

“Are you not the one always telling me to follow my heart?”

“That was when I thought you had a decent one!”

“Delly still loves me at least. It can’t be all bad.”

“For the moment. She’s optimistic, not stupid. Eventually you’ll cock that up too.”

“Now you sound like Father.” Even I shrink from the words, knowing they are the worst insult Robert could fling at Peeta.

“As much as it pains me to admit it, the old wanker can’t always be wrong, now can he? You ran off with her and left another waiting for you.”

“You benefitted! Why are you complaining?”

“Because you broke her heart!” I gasp and snap my mouth shut, sitting silent and stunned. Faint sounds of the festival hover in the silence. Peeta cannot believe that.

Robert clearly does not, but then...he already knows. He laughs with no mirth and they shift so that now I see his face instead of Peeta’s. “Where the devil did you get that idea?”

“From Katniss,” Peeta says, sounding defeated and I shake my head. Words of denial fill my throat, and I hold them tight within.

“Really? Do we speak of the same Katniss? The one who informed me that she did not seek love, just a financially secure marriage with a halfway decent man. Not even a title, she swore. Just the security that matrimony could bring. Not exactly words to swoon over, and yet I proposed anyways--”

“And then eloped.”

“Yes, well--”

“Why even propose?” Peeta asks something I am suddenly very curious about myself.

“I was getting desperate!”

“For what? Surely not Katniss. You would have stayed, had that been the case!”

“For Delly! She stopped answering my letters!”

I nearly fall over. He couldn’t possibly mean what I think he does. No one is that selfish, that obtuse. And here I thought to perhaps forgive him.

“You proposed to Katniss to make Delly jealous.”

“Yes. No… Perhaps.”

“Which one is it?”

“Come on now, man. Father was up my ass to get married already. It was a last ditch effort. Marrying Katniss was not such a terrifying prospect. It would not have been a travesty if I had. She was desperate herself, just as you had warned me. She would have the funds and security she sought, I’d have Father off my back… And if it brought Dells around instead--”

“You’re despicable.”

“I told you I was desperate. I was not thinking clearly!”

“Fucking hell. Then at least make it worthwhile. You caused a nightmare. Why wouldn’t you at least withdraw the announcement before you left with Delly? It had to be you. No one else would have run that drivel and called it romantic.”

“Withdraw the...? Oh shite. I forgot.”

“You forgot? You forgot that too? You careless piece of--” 

I blush at the curse words that pour from Peeta’s mouth then. Oh my. I suppose it is not entirely surprising. The man did spend several years as a soldier, and at some point he lived on the streets with his mother. Their words now fly fast and thick, nearly overlapping one another and making their voices difficult to distinguish.

“How could you play so loose with the hearts and feelings of others? Have you no shame at all?”

“Would you cease lecturing me?”

“I will not! You are in need of a good lecture! Damn I wish for some of your forgetfulness! I wish I could forget we were related!”

“You don’t mean that. What’s really up your arse?”

“I wish I could forget the look of devastation on Katniss’ face when she found out you had eloped, and not with her! I wish I could forget that she was in love with you and may very well still be! No thanks to you, prancing and flirting with her tonight!”

“Now you’re mad! Stark raving mad! What made you think she loved me? I told you it was to be a cold, contract marriage.”

“The way she acted and looked at me -- at  _ you _ \-- at the masquerade. How could she be truly happy with the bastard when she could have had you? How am I supposed to earn her love...with you popping up to remind her of what she lost!”

For a moment they are silent, and I am grateful for the respite. I can piece it all together now. Peeta’s reluctance in so many instances, the meaning in his letter the day we were betrothed, his insistence on a courtship even after we were married. His reluctance to see his family. How many reasons he had for such things to begin with, and now I add another.

He thought me in love at the masquerade… with Robert. 

Foolish man. Foolish, idiotic, wonderful man. Doesn’t he know my heart beats for him? He gave me such space and time to mend my broken heart which was never truly broken, only perhaps bruised. He waited every step to ensure that I was ready. Why then did he not meet me at the festival and dance with me as promised? How could he possibly think I harbor feelings for Robert after all that Peeta and I have endured together, grown together?

Because he saw me dancing with Robert and fear overruled reason. The truth is much like a slap to the cheek. Peeta hides behind it now like a mask, unable to see the truth of what lays before him. Very well then. I will help him to see what he cannot.

“Oh so  _ that _ is what Ethan meant!” Robert exclaims with a wide smile and a shake of his head. “You finally took advantage, did you? How did it feel to be me?”

“Shut up. Go dance with your own damn wife, Robert.”

“You’re an ass, brother. You ought to be thanking me, but you’re too stubborn and morose to see just how lucky you are.”

I have heard enough. I move back to the door and deliberately make noise in opening it. I step into the cool autumn air and the warm torchlight, standing on the wide stone step that leads into the garden. Peeta’s face registers shock, then fear. His anger fades away as both men bow to me.

“There you are, husband! Jo thought you were headed to the house. I’d nearly called out a search party.”

“Too little room for tempers in there, and now this garden grows stifling,” Robert says and moves to leave. “Brother, I think I shall take your advice, go dance with my own damn wife.” Then he smiles at me, a piercing look in his eyes as he once more gives me a slight bow. “Mrs. Mellark, my apologies for my coarse language. I bid you good evening.”

We stand in silence, listening to Robert’s retreating footsteps on the muddy paths. Peeta swallows and I lift one eyebrow at him. I let my eyes drag over his form, devouring the sight of him from his windswept hair to his broad shoulders and unbuttoned waistcoat. His muddy trousers and boots. The satchel he clings to that must have traveled tied to the back of his saddle and contain only his necessities. He looks wonderful and so handsome and somehow like he has been through hell in one night.

“You are nearly late and you  _ still  _ owe me a dance, husband. Are you to make a habit of this?”

“The bridge over Nine Willows River was washed out,” he explains.

“That at least explains why the post did not arrive. You however, look as though you waded through it.”

“I rather did.” At this, I scowl, anger rising up in me. “I did not wish to drag mud through the house. Thought I would enter through this door to mitigate as much of the mess as possible.”

“You think I care about the mud? I am more concerned that you would endanger your life so.”

“The kitchens are not so dangerous.”

“But fording a river is. You could have been killed! And what of Cicero? He would follow you!”

“Katniss… I am tired. It has been an exhausting couple of weeks and I have been riding since sunrise. I thought to stop at the inn at Seam, but I promised you I would be here tonight.”

“And you think a nearly kept promise would console me had you died?”

“As long as you had a body to bury, then technically I would have kept my promise,” he says.

“I do not think a corpse counts! And besides that, what would I do with a corpse? I certainly could not dance with one!”

“Bury it then dance on the grave.” He moves to leave the garden, to step around me into the house. He will not escape so easily. I block his retreat. My fingers spread on his chest. His heart beats steadily against my palm.

“We are not done discussing this, stubborn, obstinate--”

“Bastard?” he finishes and halts, gives me a wry smile. My fingers curl in his shirt, grasping hold of the damp linen. “One day, I would like someone to come up with a more creative name to call me.”

“Well at the moment it fits, since you chose to stand in the muddy garden instead of what you ought to have been doing,” I accuse and he runs a hand through his hair. Oh how I long to do the same. “Not greeting your wife and allowing me to tell you all that has transpired in your absence, acting as though we were married two weeks ago rather than several months, talking corpses and fighting with your brother when you should have been dancing with me.”

Panic invades his face and he pales.

“How do you know we were fighting? How much did you hear?”

“Enough.” Really, the man is being daft and I’ve about had enough of it.

“Enough? Enough for what?” He steps back away from me, my grip on his shirt forcing my arm to extend.

“Enough to know that you have several foolish notions in your brain that I need disabuse you of, and you are on the verge of ruining our reunion. I had quite a good time imagining it, too.”

“Did you? Pray tell how did you imagine it would go? Because this is not how I imagined it either.” 

I follow his retreat, stepping off of the stone and into the mud. I grasp hold of his coat lapels and pull him down towards me, standing on my toes to reach his lips. Only my feet slip in the mud and Peeta moves to catch me. He tosses aside his satchel then he too loses his footing and for a moment, we fumble and slide. 

He falls on his back on the muddy path. I land heavily on his chest, a tangle of limbs and a loud squelch of mud. Twin gasps escape us and then a moment of stunned silence. It would appear I am still an utter wreck when it comes to kissing my husband. 

“Not quite like that,” I grumble and a laugh escapes his lips. He stifles it quickly. But I have hope. His laughter hands it back to me as I notice the faint circles under his eyes. He is as tired as I, and that can affect one’s thinking, one’s perceptions.

Peeta holds tight to my arms and opens his mouth, probably to ask if I am alright because he is thoughtful like that when really, he ought to be kissing me instead of seeing to my welfare.

I bring my lips to his. He attempts to stop me, to speak, and I do not relent. Not until he releases a shuddering breath and his body melts beneath me, warm and solid and so very real. I feel the tension leaving his body as I kiss him. I feel it leaving mine, and then I’ve no need to relent to anything save the feelings inside me.

My eyes are shut and my pulse leaping in affirmation the second his skin touches mine. His hand caresses my cheek. He is chilled. So cold from his journey home to me and right now, I wish nothing more than to be the fire that warms and welcomes him home. And it feels so very right, near perfect, even with the mud now seeping into my clothes, or perhaps especially because of it.

There’s a rumbled moan of desire in his chest, then a sigh. I slide my hands up, up and inside the warmth beneath his coat. I wish to be rid of the layers between us but content myself with grasping tight to his shirt and do not let go. His lips slide beneath mine as he answers my kiss, returns it to me deepened and polished and perfect, a pearl in the moonlight. His cool fingers caress my neck then burrow into my unbound locks. 

There is laughter and shouting on the cool night air. I lift my head from his, holding myself suspended with my eyes shut and his fingers massaging my scalp, grasping my dress, my name a whispered kiss of warm and loving wind between us. 

“More like that,” I murmur and find the courage to open my eyes, to find him smiling at me.

“Only upright?”

“And with perhaps a bit less mud,” I say and he laughs, the sound deep and wonderful and inviting me into laughter with him.

“Katniss… we should…”

“Yes?” I say and shift my knees to straddle him. 

“Return you to the festival,” he whispers. 

“Must we?” I sigh and let my body turn limp. I rest my ear on his chest, where I know I will hear his heart, thumping steadily against my cheek. I close my eyes and absorb the soothing rhythm, the constancy of it. He continues caressing my hair and kissing my brow.

“I owe you that dance, although I am afraid I am not as nimble as your most recent partner.”

“I couldn’t possibly now!” I protest and glare at him. “My dress is quite ruined with mud.”

His eyes travel over me and he laughs, shakes his head with a bright and lopsided smile lifting his lips. “It is not as though it would be the first time this crowd has seen you so, and if we are to be making unfavorable habits -- AH!”

Peeta shouts in distress as I smear a handful of cold mud over his face, but I have only momentarily stunned him. “You could do worse than this,” he finishes with a wicked grin and rolls us over.

“No! Peeta!” I shout but I am too late. I am too late and I am laughing as I sink into the mud, his body on top of mine, pressing me deeper into the soft cushion of the earth. I cling to his shoulders and laugh in his mud covered face hovering over mine. I am still laughing between his lips as he kisses me, his hand cradling my neck to keep my head from the filth. I am laughing still as he rises over me and gazes down at me with a wondrous light in his eyes.

“What ho! I have snared an earthen goddess!” he says as he captures my flower crown before it falls from my head, pressing it more securely in place.

“Do you not know your mythology, my love? No goddess is snared who does not wish to be so.” His smile lights my own and I cannot be angry with him, at least not for this.

“You should wear the earth more often. It suits you,” he attempts to say it seriously and utterly fails, earning another fistful of mud on his other cheek. “But I suppose a change of clothing is in order before dancing.”

“I think we need a bath, husband.”

He takes another look around us and laughs a few short notes. “Perhaps so, wife.”

He carefully and slowly leverages himself off the ground, retrieving his satchel and handing it to me before hauling me up after him, as though I am nothing but a feather, straight into his arms. I settle the satchel in the curve of my belly and twine my arms around his neck, kick my feet in the air, ridiculously giddy at the sensation of him carrying me so with one strong arm behind my back and the other beneath my thighs, the warmth of his palms radiating through mud and clothing. He takes careful steps and I must work the lever on the door.

“With all this carrying me about, you are contradicting your insistence that you needed to stay mounted,” I tease and then gasp as he falters, clinging to his neck and fearing another tumble into the mud. 

“You were saying, my love?” 

We enter the house and hurry to start the fire. Working together, we are able to heat water and quickly fill the tub. I pour in some oil scented with vetiver and help Peeta sit on the stone bench.

I can bear the silence no longer then. There is so much to be shared. As I help him remove his boots and soiled clothes, I begin to talk. It is easy and simple, an exchange that happens as smoothly as breath, sharing so much of what he missed -- Primrose and my fight with her over Rory Hawthorne, our blackberry hunt with Maysilee, my discovery of Johanna --

“You are not angry with me for keeping the truth from you?” he asks as I set aside his shirt. I shake my head and motion for him to lift his hips so we can deal with his trousers.

“I understand why you did so. It must have been a terribly rough life for her.”

“Katniss,” he says and grasps my arms. I am distracted by his nudity and the need to assure myself of his well being, yet he holds me in place with his eyes. A darkness swirls in their depth and I cannot help but think of Delly’s words. That there was a darkness in his soul she could not touch. I see it now in his eyes and wonder if his time spent with another from that part of his life brought the darkness back to the surface. “It was. That world...when you step into that world, everything else disappears. All that matters, all that becomes real, is whatever you need to survive it. If you are lucky, you are allowed one dying wish, and it costs everything. And if that means…”

“Peeta,” I whisper and brush his hair back from his head. I trace the scars on his face and press my lips to their sharp fringes. I trail kisses down the damaged skin to his jaw. “You came home to me, and that is all that matters to me right now.”

“I am glad to be home,” he whispers. I remove his leg and inspect his skin. I glance up at him and he smiles.

“I would not dare incur your wrath by neglecting one of your edicts, wife.”

“You think you are safe from my wrath after you waded through a swollen river?” I mutter and continue my inspection of his body. 

“Well which is it? Are you happy to see me or angry?” he asks with a grin and I scowl at him. He endures my demands and my prodding until I am satisfied that he bears no new injuries and has been caring for his leg. 

“Why can it not be both? I am glad to see you, and I am also angry that to do so, you felt the need to act with such little regard for your welfare. I would have been as happy to see you tomorrow as I am tonight.”

Satisfied of his health, at least on the surface of his body, I motion for him to get into the tub. He sets his hands on the brim and heaves himself in, his strength evident as he lowers his body into the steaming, fragrant water and sighs, the sound content. I begin to remove my own clothing and he lifts his head from the edge of the tub to watch. Every piece of sodden wool and linen and lace until I am bare, as naked and raw as the desire I see in his eyes.

When my own clothes have joined his in a pile to be washed later, I step into the tub and carefully sit in his lap.

“Would you care to join me in my bath?” he asks, teasingly as I wriggle to find a comfortable position. The water and Peeta warm me, the feel of oils and skin slick as silk, sensual and comforting. My movements cause small waves of the water to slosh about us.

“Thank you, I would,” I tell him. He hisses and grabs my right hip, holding me still, teeth clenched. I can feel him, slipping between our bodies, rigid against my hip. I bite back a smile and decide to deal with that later. For now, there are several housekeeping matters we need dispense with. I direct him to lean his head back and he does so. “Now we can discuss a few family matters and these foolish notions you have.”

“Tell me, wife. Just what foolish notions do you refer to?”

“The ones from your letter, the day after we were engaged. The ones you just now so foolishly repeated to your brother,” I say with a quick, harsh scrub of his hair. This surprises him. His eyes open wide and he blinks at me. “You will get soap in your eyes.”

He closes them again and swallows before speaking. “I thought you hadn’t read that letter.”

“I hadn’t, at first. I only first read it this morning,” I confess and he squirms beneath me. Oh and now I am aroused as well, my belly quivering with the mounting sensation. Still, I cannot let that distract me from ensuring Peeta and I will be alright. I scrub the mud from his face and neck. Then rinse, he sputters at me but I ignore that, rinsing the soap from his hair, massaging his scalp and combing my fingers through the soaked curls to ensure they are free of both muck and suds. “You have it all wrong, you know.”

“Do I?” he asks and rubs at his eyes. “You went to that ball, asked me those questions...you wished to know Robert better--”

“Yes.”

“-- and fell in love with him.”

“Wrong,” I say and he drops his hand, splashing the water. I wipe at his eyes with a drying cloth and wait for him to look at me again. “You are very persuasive, husband, but not quite persuasive enough to make me fall in love with someone else. Do you think my heart so easily swayed?”

I slide through the water to wind my arms around his neck, to ground me to his steadiness as I find the courage to voice things I never thought I would have reason to say. I pour the words into the steamy air where I cannot hide them nor take them back. 

“It was not Robert I was enamored with that night, but the very real man behind the mask. I was never in love with Robert for I never had the chance to truly know him, and even if I did, I doubt that would have been the outcome. No, it was the man in the mask who captured my heart -- the man who was open with me about the complicated nature of his family, the man who found a way to console a distraught young girl, not by making her feel comfortable in standing out, but by changing the surroundings, convincing an entire ballroom to drink a wine that stained their lips red so that she might fit in.” Peeta stares at me, as though he does not quite believe me, but now that I have started, more words tumble free.

“I fell in love that night with a man who made me laugh before an entire hall of imposing portraits, who showed an immense amount of consideration for the hearts and feelings of so many around him, even those who would never give a whit for his own feelings had they known his true identity. A man who listened to and heard my story and still asked permission to see my scars, then kissed them as though they were something precious, not hideous, if only because they are a part of me I cannot separate them from my person. A man who made me feel exquisite as none other had.”

He opens his mouth to protest and I place a finger over his lips to halt him.

“Please. You have such a way with words and have been able to tell me in a thousand ways. Allow me this one with no interruptions.” Slowly, he nods. I trace my finger over his lips. “I was afraid, after accepting Robert’s proposal, afraid that I had acted rashly and would come to regret it. I tried to convince myself that I would be content with a business arrangement for a marriage, and then realised I would never know one way or the other if I never knew love for myself. So yes, I intended to learn more of Robert while both of us wore masks, I even intended to kiss him, and the result was that I found out that I could not be happy with a cold arrangement. I desired something greater, something stronger, but  _ you _ were the one to show me what that could be, how it could feel.”

“Robert could have done all those things that I did,” he argues, almost pathetically.

“Perhaps, although I doubt he would have thought to do half of them. In the end, it does not matter. Robert did not do those things. You did.” I take a deep breath and twist strands of his hair around my fingers. “I was angry with you, and I was hurting when I learned the truth. I was not mourning Robert’s loss but that of the man in the mask. Then I found myself married, only to fall in love all over again for such similar reasons. Who you were behind that mask is who you have been here at Everdeen. Kind, thoughtful, patient, generous, witty, and still, I was as confused as you were about that night. Could I love you both? It didn’t seem fair that I should, but now I understand. You are one and the same. My husband and my man in the mask. It has taken me months to face what I already knew.”

I stumble then, right at the finish and Peeta’s hands caress up my arms, over my shoulders to my back, drawing me closer to his chest for an embrace.

“And what is that?” he prompts, his voice a mere whisper, as though if we talk above a whisper, we may disturb the delicate, growing bonds between us.

“You really are the luckiest bastard in the world and I don’t intend to let you forget it.”

It takes him a moment and then he shakes his head with a smile, brings my lips to his. “I love you, Katniss. My pearl.”

“And I love you, Peeta. Only you,” I whisper in return, the words are kissed between us, our lips close enough to touch. Then we are kissing for real. A dozen kisses, perhaps a hundred. Soft, soft, and then wild. Ravenous.

I am uncertain how long we kiss. Only that I do not wish to stop. His lips and his hands on me only make me long for more. Endless nights and days filled with kisses such these, caresses such as those, the soft murmur of his moans answering my own. 

I keep expecting him to press for more than these kisses and caresses, yet he seems content to share only this for now, and I find myself glad of it, savoring each breathy kiss and heated touch, my body drawn to such a height of both luxurious comfort and scintillating anticipation. We might stay here always, kissing until time ends. Only, the water eventually cools enough that not even the heat of Peeta’s body is enough to combat the chills.

I shiver and he separates our lips, whispering that we need to be swift or risk illness. He shifts our bodies and begins to wash my hair for me, then my body. I relax into his touch and allow his attentions, his care of me.

“I missed you, Katniss. I could wait no longer to hold you, to assure myself that things that...invaded my dreams while I was away were not true,” he murmurs, an explanation for his reckless choice to continue towards home when nature threw obstacles to block his path back to me, and perhaps the chill in his letters.

“You as well?” I ask and blink to clear the tears forming in my eyes. Are we so fragile then, as to fall prey to the doubts of lonely beds and nights? 

His hands pause and he examines my face. “What caused your doubts? My brother?”

“He was part of it, but no matter. I have dealt with the doubts he caused. What caused yours?”

“Truthfully? The past. I was...struggling with nightmares and when your letters arrived, I suppose I thought -- that is they were very…”

“Detached,” I say pathetically.

“I thought perhaps my own letters in all their vehemence might have pushed you away from me, or shown you that you did not truly feel the same way.”

“No,” I say with a shake of my head and hurry on before he can say more. “I never know how to order my words to say what I wish. Your letters were so...so beautiful, Peeta. I -- well you will think me terribly fanciful but I saved every one of them, read them every day you were gone, kept them in my book of your sketches for me. But… Anything I wrote in answer paled in comparison.”

“Well, not that last one,” he says, his voice a sudden low growl. My eyes fly up to meet his and I see desire swirling in a storm of deep blue, freckled with grey. I cannot stop my smile and shake my head. 

“Twas only a paragraph of poetry.”

“Twas enough,” he says and brings me close, to feel him again, hard and ready. Heat rises in me, making the chill of the water worse in contrast, causing more shivers. “Twas enough to give me hope that perhaps my doubts were without foundation, imagined, made worse by not being near you. ‘Twas enough to make me set up my two companions at the inn four towns up the road until it is safer to travel, and press on alone. Perhaps stubbornly and obstinately--”

“And foolishly,” I add and he smiles at me.

“Yes that, too.” His words are a balm and also a bothersome worry. But I know now that even my fears are safe in Peeta’s hands and so I ask him.

“After all that, why did you not come to me at the festival?”

“I did, and I saw you dancing with Robert and…” His words trail into the soft splash of his hands as he finishes bathing me.

“Fear won out,” I finish his sentence, a confirmation of what I already suspected. 

“I am afraid so. You appeared so happy and carefree. I did not think I could compete with that, not in the mindset I have been in for some time. At the very least, I thought I should present myself to you looking less bedraggled.” As he speaks, he caresses my face and along my jaw. As though he cannot touch me enough. 

“I would have been happier to dance with you. But would you have me sour at all times in your absence?”

“No, I wish you happy, as much as possible. ‘Twas selfish of me, and I apologise for it a hundred times over. I would ford as many rivers if it would gain me your forgiveness for my weakness, if it would mean I could hear you say these things again.”

“I would prefer you save the fording of rivers and instead kiss me again,” I whisper. He smiles and bends his head to kiss me, but a thought occurs to me then. “Where is your hat, husband?”

“I…” he pauses and looks rather chagrined. “Lost it in the river.”

I would like to yell at him again for his recklessness, but that will not gain me a kiss, so instead I chose to make light of it.

“Well. At least you have no valet. You have spared the poor man the shock of your garments,” I tease and flick my gaze towards the pile of our now sodden clothing. He laughs, the sound echoing merrily off the stone walls until he kisses me. I sink into the water and tighten my hold on him. I am breathing in short gasps when he releases me and my next words are breathless. “And your boots...we shall have to ask Delly to make you another pair.”   
  


He pauses and lifts his head, peers at me as though seeking an answer. “They have not been much trouble?”

“Delly has not.” He grunts at this, a darkening in his eyes that is not desire. I cannot have that. “And while Robert has caused some trouble, I do not think it was meant to be malicious. I can handle whatever he metes out to me. Perhaps not at first. I needed reminding of a few things that I already knew, but in the end it is alright. He is...not happy, is he?”

“He wasn’t prepared to deal with the consequences. I don’t believe he realised how severe they would be, but I think given time to adjust, they will be alright.”

“Then you should help him.” I say and maneuver myself out of the tub. As I do, Peeta’s hand wanders up my leg, up to my core. I gasp and give him a falsely scandalised look that makes him smile. “After you lecture him half a dozen times for being such a boor.”

Peeta laughs at this and follows me from the tub, bundles me in drying clothes and then in his arms. Our lips gravitate towards one another, the gentle caresses quickly gaining heat. Only now it is the air that cools our skin and causes shivers and chattering teeth.

“We should finish this by our fire,” I whisper when we manage to cease kissing for a breath. 

He nods and rubs his hands over my arms to warm me. We finish carefully drying ourselves, deal with the mess as best we can for now. Only, we’ve nothing clean to wear. 

“Clearly, I was too distracted by your radiance to think about such mundane things as how we would get out of this room in any sort of decency,” Peeta accuses me with another brief, heated kiss. We drape the drying clothes around ourselves and one around his still wet satchel, and sneak through dark corridors, hiding along the way and listening for anyone who might stumble upon us so indecently garbed. Thankfully, all is quiet. Everyone seems to be still at the festival or fast asleep.

I am blushing from head to toe by the time we fall into our room and lock the door. But I am also giggling foolishly. Peeta drops his towels and wraps his arms around me, hauling me up against his chest to kiss me. I melt into the embrace and release my own towels to cling to him, fingers burrowing in his hair and his flesh as I reassure myself that he is truly here and not a dream I have conjured to torture myself in my lonely bed.

When he lifts his head, he smiles up at me. “Have we anything else we need discuss? There is more to this reunion I had imagined for us, if you desire it.”

I blush, and as much as I would like to order him to take me to bed and love me until the sun rises, I have more yet to tell him. I palm his cheek and give him one more soft kiss. “Not yet, husband. I have more.”

“Very well.” He sets me on my feet, then surprises me by making a content noise. He then maneuvers us towards the fire. I dress in my shift while he works at turning the glow to a cheery blaze. I hand him his nightshirt and he dons it before settling on the couch. I join him, curling into his side and tucking my feet up beneath a blanket as I prepare for the rest of what I need to tell him.

I wish I could think of a gentle way to ease into it, but I decide that being forthright is perhaps my best option.

“I asked Haymitch to conduct a search for your mother, several months ago.” Peeta’s fingers stop combing through my hair and I cautiously lift my head from his chest to gauge his reaction. “I thought...perhaps someone with a name in no way connected to the Mellark’s may have better luck.”

“Oh. Katniss you did not have to do that.”

“I wanted to, and we were fairly successful.”

“You...you found my mother?” he asks and I hate to squash the burgeoning hope in his voice.

“Not exactly,” I say and his face begins to crumble with disappointment. “We’ve managed to piece together a good deal of her life over the past fifteen years, although I think it best that perhaps our man work with yours from now on. Perhaps you have pieces we haven't and vice versa.” Hope has returned to his eyes and now I truly feel wretched as I bite my lip and impart the most pressing part of this news. “We did find… we found... her daughter.”

“Her… _ daughter _ .” Peeta stares at me and I take his silence as invitation to explain, and so I do.

“Her name is Miranda. She is seven years of age right now, approaching her eighth birthday at the end of next month, and when that happens, the orphanage where she has resided since birth plans to hand her over to a workhouse and--”

Peeta shifts me off of him and stands. He bends over the mantel, staring into the blaze, his fingers working in an agitated motion. I am not certain what to make of his reaction and must gather my courage once again, to face the possibility that I may have been wrong about him.

“Did you know of her?”

“I had no idea,” he whispers. “If I had, I would have…but then...I don’t...” It is a lot to take in, I understand, but we haven’t time for Peeta to work through it all. We need to act.

“That is exactly what I thought you would say. So we shall need to pack our bags for Capitol.”

“Now?” he asks and turns to face me.

“Well I suppose Mr. Burbank will need a few days to settle some of the paperwork and inquiries. We could use the time to make that visit to pay our respects to the Marquis along the way. By the time we reach Capitol, it should be a matter of signing and packing her bags. Mayhap we leave in two days. Is that sufficient rest for you?”

“Paperwork? Packing her bags?”

“To assume guardianship of your sister,” I say.

“You would do that?” he whispers. “Bring her here to Everdeen and raise her as part of your family? A complete stranger? The daughter of--”

“She is already part of our family, husband. We need only make it official and permanent.” I cut him off before he can place a label on his mother that I am certain he will regret. He pulls me off of the sofa and into his arms, kissing the yelp of surprise from my throat. I am nearly crushed beneath the force of his embrace and yet I have never felt so relaxed as I do in Peeta’s arms, even under such vigorous embracing.

“I will be honest, tis not the news I was expecting. You are certain she and I share a mother?”

“Yes,” I say and he swallows. I watch his throat bob with the motion and stand on my toes to kiss beneath his jaw. 

“Who...who is her father?” his voice cracks on the question and I lean back to stare into his eyes, silently pleading with him to not make me say it. His eyes sweep closed and his jaw clenches. His hands do the same on my back. So then he knew at least that his mother was forced to sell herself to survive.

“I know it is a lot to absorb, Peeta.”

“Yes. Well, I knew she had to….afterwards ...it must have been easier to fall into that form of survival after she no longer had me to worry after. Even when she did have me...I had started to suspect at least a little. There were days when she refused to tell me where she went to work. I only knew that she would invariably return with food or money on those days, more than usual.”

“Oh Peeta,” I whisper and he buries his face in my neck, holding me close as his shoulders shake.

“You said she has been in an orphanage since birth? So Miranda has never known family at all? Not even Mother?” He keeps his voice quiet but I still hear the breaks in it. The desperate need to remain strong, even as he falls to pieces inside.

“We will be Miranda’s family.”

“Luckiest bastard indeed to have such a wife as you,” he murmurs and lifts me into his arms, carrying me across the room to our bed, kissing me the entire journey, kissing me as he lays me out across the soft surface before joining me. And he mercifully does not cease kissing me for a good, long while.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~


	23. Chapter 23

The night becomes a tapestry of talking, catching up where letters fall short, of kisses in every shade of need from gentle to desperate, of holding one another, teasing one another, languishing in the comfort of knowing we are loved by the other. Scattered laughter and satisfied moans dance with the slow parade of the stars outside our cracked open window. And in between...sleep. Such deep, dreamless sleep as I’ve not had in some time. 

Although perhaps I do dream and my sleep is far too restful to recall the dreams come waking. If I do dream, they must be happy, for when I wake in the morning, it is to the melody of honking geese and a warm shaft of sunlight across my face, a smile upon my lips and a delicious feeling of contentment that I know is due to the man beside me. The undeniable heat of my husband holding me close to his naked body is a blanket of contentment, and his warm breath on my neck is a kiss of delight. I smile and trace errant patterns over Peeta’s hand where it rests over our child he remains yet unaware of. I connect the several small scars that cross his skin, caress over the gold wedding band that still gleams but now shows some wear on it as well. Small knicks in the soft surface evidence of time and life lived.

We will be fine, Peeta and I. We will make our obligatory visit to de Vale and face down his dragon of a father. I will not be intimidated with Peeta by my side. Then we shall journey to Capitol to collect his sister, to enfold her into our family. When we return home, I think I will be ready to announce my own happy secret to the world, although I do not think I will be able to keep it from Peeta past this morning. 

We have slept late, yet the house remains quiet. It is likely that most are still abed after their late night at the festival. I wriggle enough out of his embrace to retrieve the sketch book from its drawer, then back again deeper into the covers for warmth. I turn to face Peeta, smiling when I find him watching me with only one eye opened.

“You are awake.”

“Am I? I was certain I must be dreaming,” he says, his voice deep, luxuriously rich and rough with sleep. It rouses memories of the texture and pace of his tongue lapping at my intimate skin, loving me at his leisure. I shiver at the wanton thought and Peeta’s arms encircle me, pulling me closer to his warmth as his lips brush over mine. “For certainly such a restful night beside such an exquisite woman can only be a dream. I’m but a bastard, a medically discharged foot soldier, yet here I am laying with a goddess.”

I bring the sketchbook between us and cover his mouth with it to prevent any more distracting, wonderful kisses. “You should know that every goddess extracts a price. You owe me a fortnight worth of drawings, husband. Or suffer my wrath.”

“More tribute? Were my efforts at pleasing you last night not satisfactory? How about earlier this morning?” He chuckles and moves aside the sketchbook, kisses me as I blush, but I cannot regret nor be ashamed of how we spent our night. I am heady with his kisses and almost forget the sketchbook. But if I am denied one promise fulfilled, then I will greedily demand another.

“The sketches or a dance, husband! Tis your choice, but you are not done courting me yet,” I say when he pulls away completely. He only smiles, rolling over and retrieving something from his bags. I sit up and attempt to conceal my curiosity as he returns with an oilskin wrapped package, opens it, and presents me with a sheaf of parchment. I’m only given a chance to glance at the first few drawings -- a flock of birds taking flight from a pond, several workers in a field, one of me.

“Am I paid in full now, wife?”

“On second thought, I still want my dance as well, since you seem so eager to pay my tribute demands,” I declare with a lift of my nose, but laugh as he pulls on my leg to bring me beneath him.

“What have we been doing all night then but dancing between these sheets?” Warmth flows through me as he returns something I said to him last night in an odd fit of sentimentality.

“You are obscene, husband.”

“And you enjoy it,” he growls. I forget the sketches as he kisses me out of my wits, the paper fluttering from my hands to the floor so that I may hold tight to him and return his kisses with equal desire.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

As much as I would like to remain in bed all day with Peeta, eventually we must rise and dress for the day. We have tasks to see to, family for Peeta to be reunited with. I am not the only one who will wish to see him today. 

Our movements through the room as we prepare for the day follow an easy, now familiar pattern. He kisses along my neck and shoulders as he assists with my stays. My knees quake with need and it requires all of my focus to not throw him back on the bed and have him again before breakfast. As I turn to adjust his cravat, he smiles at me, his hands resting on my hips, thumbs brushing back and forth in a shockingly simple yet utterly arousing touch. 

I am struck with it as he thanks me for my help and I answer with a kiss. Once, soft and brief, and all for me because I am simply so happy to have him back. I am no longer sure how on earth we managed to doubt one another.

“Are you certain?” I whisper. “About adding Miranda to our family? I know that I have quite thrust this upon you without warning, even made a decision without consulting you.”

“I am certain,” he says and seems to sense that I need more reassurance. “We’ve spoken of children before, and while this was not how I expected to bring our first into our family, I cannot turn my back on her. We will have time before our own blood children, if we are so blessed with them, arrive. Time to give to Miranda.”

I nod and bite the inside of my cheek, suddenly wondering if he would refuse Miranda should he know that I am even now with child. He kisses me then and I keep my silence, in turmoil, wondering how to tell him now. The decision is made for me with his next words.

“We should take a long ride today. I missed that while I was away, riding with you. I imagine the turn in weather has much changed Everdeen, and I would love to see her in her transition from autumn to winter,” Peeta says, a sort of happiness in his voice that comes only from being secure and content in one’s home. I hate to disappoint him, but I must. I have not had time to prepare my words, but no excuse I give save the truth will be sufficient.

“I am afraid I cannot,” I say. “I will not be riding for some time to come.”

“Is something amiss with Sagittaria?” he asks, his brow wrinkling as I retrieve his coat and focus on helping him into it, smoothing the fabric over his broad shoulders so that it lays correct. I keep running my hands over his shoulders, needing to feel some part of him, some part of his strength as I deliver this last bit of news. “She seemed perfectly fine in the stables last night.”

“Sagittaria is fine. As am I,” I say as he turns to face me. I take his hand in mine, placing it flat over my belly and struggling to find the words. “I meant to tell you last night, but I am afraid you distracted me. I have another reason to refrain from riding...for now, and we may not have quite as much time for Miranda alone as we could hope for.”

His glance leaps between my face and our hands for a moment before settling on our hands. “Katniss...are we expecting?”

“It is still early, but I believe so,” I whisper, holding tight to the hope that he will be pleased. “We can manage both… can we not? It will still be several months before the babe arrives. Time for Miranda to adjust to her new home…”

I trail off, unable to continue. He surges towards me, making me gasp as his arms surround me, his lips descend to mine and I squeak into his mouth. When he finally stops kissing me, the room is still spinning about me and I cling to him to steady myself. But I do not need to ask if he is pleased with the news. I can see the answer in his eyes, in his smile that rivals the sun for brightness, and his murmured words about how much he loves me and how lucky he is before kissing me once again.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

By the time we make our way to the breakfast room, my arm linked with his, the entire household is awake and at table. The room is quite crowded and yet, several of its occupants note our entrance and voice greetings. A girlish squeal rises above the din, causing Aunt Effie to cover her ears.

“Miss’er Pee’ah!” Maysilee shouts and leaps from her chair to run full tilt at him, not hearing Aunt Effie’s disgruntled complaint about her unladylike behavior. “Miss’er Pee’ah! You are home!”

“Maysee Daisy!” he says joyfully, laughing as he bends over to scoop her into his arms. “Did you get my letter?”

“I did! I have missed you!”

“And I you,” Peeta says, holding her against his chest with one arm and wrapping the other around my waist, holding me tight to his side in a sort of half embrace. I rest one hand on his abdomen and one on his back. Maysilee grabs hold of his face and turns it to examine the left side. I bite back a laugh as he gives me a delighted yet befuddled look.

“Aha! Mother was right! He can steal your face but not your courage kisses!”

“My what?” Peeta asks with a soft chuckle. Maysilee points to his scars and seems quite proud of herself.

“Your courage kisses. Mister Joe says you got them one time when you were very brave and saved his life.”

“Did he?”

“Yes,” Maysilee says, completely unaware of the effect of her words as she spills them into the crowded room. “And Mother says Miss Katniss has some too, from when she saved Mother and Miss Prim!”

I catch Sir Robert’s surprised look from the corner of my eye, the way his gaze sweeps over me as though he might see through my dress to my scars. It distracts me for a moment before I return my focus to Peeta and Maysilee.

“Maysilee, darling that is perhaps not appropriate talk for breakfast,” Madge says, standing partially to retrieve her daughter, but Peeta waves her off and turns to Maysilee.

“We can talk of that later, on our adventure. For now, what I most want is some blackberry jam.” Maysilee gasps and he smiles at her. “You wouldn’t happen to know where I might find some, would you, Maysee Daisy?”

“I do! We saved it for you!” Maysilee says and squirms down from his hold, only to take his hand in hers and lead him to table. He sits, as Maysilee has given him no choice to do otherwise. She promptly serves him a plate and messily smears his jam on his toast for him, all while chattering away.

Peeta gives me a hapless and yet happy look as I move to the sideboard alone and fix my own plate. I half listen to their conversation as I pile my plate high with food, including a few things I know Peeta to be fond of since Maysilee will not let him rise and fix his own plate. 

I set one hand on his shoulder as I join the table, my rather cumbersome plate tilting slightly as I set it on the pristine white cloth. Peeta reaches over, slides my chair out for me, before a footman can accomplish the task, even as he speaks to Maysilee. I sit and Peeta pushes it back in beneath me.

Happily, I tuck into my meal, for I am famished, likely a result of our activities last night into this morning. At one point, I feel eyes on me and glance up to find Sir Robert’s eyes darting between Peeta and I, and my hands...which are half suspended moving some of the eggs and ham from my plate onto Peeta’s. I shrug and finish the task, since I did serve myself extra so that he might have some. When I have finished with the transfer, Peeta turns and clasps my hand in his before I can retreat, bringing it to his lips.

“Thank you, my pearl,” he whispers and my entire body enflames at the look in his eyes, at the promises I see in their depths. Maysilee giggles, drawing his attention back to her. When my eyes once more find Sir Robert’s watching me, with a look that I cannot decipher, I choose to ignore it and turn to listen to the discussion between Madge and Aunt Effie as I eat.

“I am merely stating that it is strange for a child to spend so much time in the presence of adults. She needs more interactions with those closer to her own age,” Effie states and gives Madge a supercilious glance. “A sister perhaps.”

“Please, Aunt Effie. She has already asked me several times. I am only recently out of my half mourning and not interested in marriage.”

“A cat, perhaps,” Aunt Effie suggests. “Something for her to share these childish daydreams with and make her feel secure.” 

Prim glances at me before she looks away, guilt written all over her face. It’s been years and I wonder at her reaction. We never talked about what happened that night. I never wanted to, until I told Peeta.

“Oh but she does have friends!” Delly interjects. “I’ve seen her with other children. They were playing a marvelous game in the vegetable garden the day Robert and I arrived!”

“The servants’ children,” Effies says with a slight sniff. Delly purses her lips and glances down at her plate, her cheeks turning pink. Sir Robert seems either oblivious to his wife’s distress, or uninterested in defending her. I rather like Delly, despite her questionable taste in men, and not wanting to see her uncomfortable, I turn to Aunt Effie.

“Do you suggest she cannot be free and childish in her adventures with Peeta?” I say and Effie glances at him.

“Well, I did have my doubts about your husband at first, my dear, but that is slightly different. Your husband was raised in a different class entirely -- as the son of a Marquis no less -- but he is still an adult, not a child.”

“An adult who was raised initially by a ladies’ maid and a baker,” I state and fill my mouth with food to await Effie’s reaction. She gapes for a moment and Uncle Haymitch sighs. We’ve somehow drawn the attention of everyone at this point.

“My dear...you will need to loosen your corset a touch in this crowd. Or have you forgotten all of our own humble beginnings?”

“Oh Haymitch, must we bring that up over breakfast?” My mother asks and he nods.

“Yes, yes I think we must.”

“Darling, I don’t think--” Effie tries to argue.

“Shall we lay our scandals on the table?” Haymitch asks and points towards me. “You first, sweetheart. What humble origins do you bring to the gathering?”

Now my father protests, but I am thinking of what Peeta once did in a ballroom with a glass of wine and a few well placed sentences. I lift one shoulder and give my Uncle a sly smile. “I still run about in breeches sometimes, a shameless hoyden, and I spent my one and only season in society as a fortune hunter. I was shockingly aggressive about the whole thing, and like most hunts, it was rather messy. Thankfully, I wound up married to and madly in love with...” I turn towards him so he knows I do not mean it as an insult. “A bastard.”

Peeta smiles at me and my heart flutters. Will his effect on me ever fade, I wonder? I hope not.

“That gives us a nice transition to your turn, Mrs. Robert Mellark,” Haymitch says and Delly looks about, for support perhaps. I give her a nod of encouragement and she sits taller.

“I...I eloped with another woman’s fiancé,” she whispers, glancing with trepidation at me.

“And happy she is that you did,” I say and Robert laughs. “So is almost everyone at this table, Delly. You will have to try harder than that to shock us.”

Prim, the only one who does not know the full story, looks between us all, her brow furrowed. I haven’t time to explain, however, she is intelligent enough to piece it all together. Delly smiles a little and thinks for a moment, taking a deep breath before speaking again. “I am the daughter of a cook and a coachman. Myself a cobbler. A shoemaker,” she whispers and l lift my glass of juice delicately.

“Who makes astonishingly comfortable footwear. Really, Aunt Effie perhaps a fine pair of Delly’s boots will put you in a better mood.”

Effie huffs and several chuckles lift from the table as Haymitch clears his throat. “I am the son of a gambler--”

“Haymitch!” Effie protests and he waves her off.

“Who left my family in dire straights, extreme debt, when he died. So bad, in fact that our family was stripped of our title and I was never able to earn trust among the peerage,  _ and _ my mother almost immediately remarried in a desperate attempt to pay off some of his debts. It was quite the scandal, Mother marrying her late husband’s closest friend while she was still in full mourning. Especially when my sister…” At this, he turns to my mother. She sits straighter in her seat and nods.

“Was born a fat, healthy, and undeniably full term baby a mere six months after the nuptials… ten months plus a few days after Mr. Abernathy had been buried.” She smiles at the murmured reactions and then turns to Delly. “Her second marriage solved some of the debts and bought her some time with the collectors, but still, it was not enough. The debts hounded our mother for years. My father and brother could scarcely find employment to support us, let alone attempt to pay off the remaining debts, until I was old enough to seek a husband. I found a suitor wealthy enough to lay the debts to rest once and for all, and sufficiently charmed by me to overlook my humble origins and the scandal of those debts. My parents were thrilled with the match, and at first, I was as well. But as I came to know him better, I grew to dread my choices. And then...”

“And then some poor farmer swept onto the scene, romanced her and stole her away from her titled, wealthy suitor,” my father states and my mother smiles at him. “We disappeared into the country to lead our quiet, happy life, away from the scandal we had caused, from the damage her jilted suitor attempted to cause to both our families… And now I find myself in the very awkward position of entertaining two of that jilted suitor’s sons at my table, one of them married to my own daughter. Quite ironic.”

Peeta and Sir Robert take a moment to absorb that and share a glance before Robert groans and bends his head forward. “Good Lord, of course. That explains so much!”

“Did you know?” Peeta whispers to me and I shake my head.

“Not all of it,” I whisper. He frowns a little, and I know I shall have to tell him everything later, but for now, I mouth an apology as Robert picks up the game. 

“Well then, since we’re confessing our scandals...I’m the cad who, not knowing of our families’ connections, proposed to the farmer’s daughter in the morning then ran off with the cobbler that evening,” Robert says and everyone merely blinks at him except for Prim, who gasps, her fork striking the plate. “Oh good, at least there’s one of you shocked by my story. I feel much less like a pariah now!”

“And since my sister failed to deal with my father’s debts through marriage,” Uncle Haymitch continues, “I finally gathered the gumption to do it myself, by marrying the daughter of a man who claimed to be a merchant with a fleet of shipping vessels but who in reality made his considerable fortunes not through legal trade but through--”

“Really, Haymitch! Enough!” Effie protests, her face red.

“Piracy.” 

Haymitch finishes with the single word and Effie cries out while the rest of the table remains in shocked silence. Even Maysilee seems to respect the gravity of this reveal.

“Damn,” Peeta finally says with a rueful shake of his head. “Here I thought myself the most scandalous member of this table. I didn’t even have a chance to share!”

“I pretend to be a pirate sometimes!” Maysilee pipes up.

Effie laughs, once, the sound crazed before she stifles it behind one hand. Her shoulders begin to shake then and Haymitch lifts her other hand to his lips.

“My pirate princess, ladies and gentleman. So, Countess. My wife is quite right. You want to be careful what sort of company your daughter keeps.”

The conversation shifts then, Robert finding what appears to be a decent transition out of the awkward aura hanging over us all. “I say...I spotted this quaint ruin just up the road a bit. Looked like a lovely old manor house, all crumbling and covered in vines and neglected for some time. Likely abandoned. Excellent atmosphere, a bit creepy but intriguing. It seemed a good place for an adventure and a picnic, Miss Maysilee. Perhaps with pirates!”

Now Madge is the one laughing hysterically and Robert looks about the table for an answer.

“Unless someone owns the place still? I would not want to trespass.”

“That would be me,” Madge says, still lost in laughter. We must laugh, about all of it, for it is far too ridiculous to do anything else. “Would you care for a ghost story over breakfast, Sir Robert?”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

We are granted a calm, perfect afternoon after the riot of that first breakfast. The sky above an idyllic blue with racing white clouds. The river subsides enough that about a dozen of the men of Everdeen to include Peeta, my father, Haymitch, and even Sir Robert are able to begin work rebuilding the washed out bridge. We make a picnic of it on the banks, a chore turned into an almost fair like atmosphere before the weather prohibits such a thing.

Sir Robert loses his balance at one point, and slides down the muddy bank. He is only just able to jam a booted foot against a post before he plunges into the river. His near embarrassment provides much fodder for Haymitch, and rough laughter at Robert’s expense fills the air. 

“Which of us has the wooden leg again?” Peeta calls out, and my father laughs before joining in.

“I would lend you a hand, but I seem to be short one already!” 

When Sir Robert regains his footing and examines his now muddied clothes with great distaste, I cannot help but wonder if he has ever gotten dirty in his entire life. Certainly he has not performed a great deal of manual labor. He struggles with the timbers and curses at splinters. At one point, I carry refreshment to the men as they work, keeping a safe distance from the slippery sections of riverbank.

“Will you not pitch in today, Katniss?” Haymitch asks. “Show Robert here how it is done?” Robert’s face burns further and I smile smugly but shake my head.

“Not today. I am enjoying the show you gentlemen put on far too much,” I say. Peeta wraps an arm around me protectively. His scent reaches me, rougher and deeper with his physical exertions. It is like the twang of a stringed instrument being tuned in my gut. I vibrate with the need to drag him away and...and oh lord I am having such impure thoughts of him with practically my entire family right here.

My eyes flit over to my father and I watch as a question fills his eyes, a question that I answer with a silent nod. He will know that there are few things that could dissuade me from donning breeches and pitching in on such a task as this. He will suspect anyways, and I cannot seem to keep it a secret. I am too happy to do so. Light fills his eyes and he turns from me with a grin, saying something to Haymitch that gets my uncle to leave me be.

Ours is not the only quiet interaction in that moment of respite, though. Robert keeps stealing glances at his wife. She sits on the blanket with Madge, working a heavy needle through leather...a pair of shoes. Her industrious activity seems to only feed his embarrassment and I pretend not to hear it when Peeta whispers to his brother, two words.

“Earn it.”

I have a fair guess at what that means, confirmed when Robert rolls up his sleeves and returns to the task at hand as though his life depends on it. And perhaps it does in a way. Robert has lived since birth with everything handed to him. Has he ever needed to work for a thing in his life? I cannot be sure, but I doubt it, and now he will need to, in order to have a happy life with his Delly, cut off from the financial support of his wealthy father.

The work continues. Madge is not allowed much time to sit and fair wears herself out keeping Maysilee from the water. When he takes his turn at rest, Peeta sets her on one on his shoulders and holds her secure and still, if only for a few moments. Madge sighs in exasperation at her daughter and relief at Peeta’s attentiveness.

“Shall we catch a fish for our adventure today?” Maysilee asks brightly, pointing out the flashes of silver scales in the rushing waters.

“The water is far too swift for fishing,” I tell her. “We would have better luck on a calm day.”

“Miss Katniss knows what she speaks of. Fish tremble in fear at her line. Stag quiver and hide from her bow. Suitors fall at her feet! She is a fierce huntress, you know,” Peeta tells her. Maysilee turns and whispers in his ear and he laughs. Setting her on the ground, they turn to me and curl their fingers into claws, slowly stalking towards me where I sit on a picnic blanket.

“What are you doing?” I ask with suppressed laughter when they are but a few steps away from me.

“Sh!” Maysilee instructs and they halt, frozen in their comical pose. “Do you think she sees us?”

“I cannot be sure. It is difficult hunting a huntress, for she must have keen sight.”

“We should pounce!” 

Squeals and laughter fill the air as they charge. I find myself somehow holding Maysilee, both of us squashed in Peeta’s embrace as he roars like a bear and lifts us off the ground. Maysilee wraps her arms about my neck and laughs.

“We were hunting for hugs!” She says and I kiss her cheek before whispering to her.

“I think your mother has a hug hidden somewhere.” Maysilee quiets, her eyes wide with delight. I set her down and she proceeds to stalk first Madge and then half of our party, pouncing and bestowing hugs, receiving them and laughter in exchange.

I slide my fingers together with Peeta’s and guide him away from the group, into a copse of trees. “Where are you taking me, huntress? Somewhere you might finish me off?”

I place my finger over my lips to quiet him and pull him into the shadows, out of view of the world before bringing him to me and kissing him. We are reckless and wild in that moment, a pagan huntress and her captured lover. I lose all sense of time and place, aware only of his hands on my back, his arms holding me upright, his lips sending me reeling, his scent as it fills my head. I am once again struck with the most salacious desires. Things I wish to do to him that would shock even a well traveled, experienced opera singer. I shall certainly need a confessional this week.

When he finally manages to extricate himself from my grasp, we are both flushed and breathing heavily. His pupils are wide pools and his lips swollen with my kiss.

“Is it my working on the bridge or the hunting with Maysilee that has you so aroused?” He whispers, his voice a rasp of autumn wind that serves only to ruffle my hair and my desire further.

“Both. All of it. It is you. I cannot stop picturing you as a father, how you will be with our own children, and it...fills me with an insatiable need for you to take me, now,” I confess, my chest heaving with the effort to breathe. Peeta curses and cups my cheek in his hand, checking that we have not been discovered before bending his head to whisper to me.

“I thought we had already seen to that.”

“It cannot hurt to be certain,” I whine and he laughs, dark and rich, and feeding my desire for him.

“Have you any idea how much discipline it is taking me to refrain from pulling up your skirts and having you against this tree?” A pained whimper escapes my throat at his words, and his fingers clench on me. “You wouldn’t stop me, would you?”

“I do not know if I would be able to. I certainly would not want to,” I gasp and he growls before kissing me again. This one is short but oh so rough and primal, revealing to me just how tenuous is his grasp on control right now. In seconds though, he manages to shackle his need and separate our mouths.

“Tonight, my pearl. I will give you all that you desire tonight.” He sets me away from him, the full length of his arms and then sees to both our appearances before we return to the group. 

Maysilee still hunts, bestowing hugs. Peeta picks her up from behind and she squeals. He seamlessly returns to their game and it is only my mother’s knowing eyes that note our return. I blush and duck my head, but the smile on her lips tells me that she does not censure me at all, and I wonder, not for the first time, but now with great curiosity, what her and my father’s courtship and early days of marriage were like.

The day is too long, the night not nearly long enough. Darkness arrives, not soon enough, and I am anxious for all these guests and family to go to sleep already. I suffer through dinner, and through evening amusements in the drawing room after. I silently curse my father and Haymitch for keeping my husband at the chess board for far too long. Then his brother for engaging him in some sort of serious conversation. Primrose and Aunt Effie for demanding my attention as we discuss dressmakers and seasons and how to proceed. My sister informs Effie that she already has a contender for her hand and this season is a mere formality, but Effie insists that is no excuse not to make the most of it.

Finally, the clock chimes an hour that is acceptable for me to make excuses and depart company. It takes Peeta a moment or two longer to make his own excuses and I wait for him in the shadows at the top of the stairs, pouncing on him the moment his feet are planted firmly on the hallway floor. 

As always, Peeta shows that I can rely on him to keep his promises. Our bedroom door is shut and locked behind us, and he becomes mine and mine alone, focused solely on me, giving me everything that I desire.

After, we lay on the floor before our fire, wrapped in blankets and a fur that caresses my skin, sinuous and soft as Peeta’s caresses. He kisses my temple and I sigh, content to lay here in his arms all night. The fire warms the front of my body and Peeta warms the rest of me. I lazily rub my feet over his leg, the coarse hair tickling my toes. My thoughts drift through hazy, violet clouds of content fulfillment. 

“I have been giving serious consideration to Dr. Aurelius’ advice,” Peeta whispers, bringing my mind from its hazy wanderings.

“What advice?” I ask and Peeta becomes absorbed in the lock of my hair he twists around his fingers.

“Attending medical school, becoming a doctor.”

“Oh?”

“Wherever you and I and our family must go in future… there will always be a need for a good doctor, and we will need some form of steady income.”

“You inherited a fortune from the Marquis,” I argue.

“Hm. I knew it. You only married me for my dowry. Admit it, fortune hunter,” he teases and nuzzles behind my ear.

“Of course I married you for your dowry, bastard. It was a very tempting purse,” I tease in return, shifting so that I face him. I caress over his hip, down to his buttocks to grip him and pull him flush to my hips. “Quite irresistible. But I keep you about for your excellent qualities as a stud...” I cannot finish as his kisses on my neck have grown heated and insistent.

“At least I can be confident then that I have performed my husbandly duties admirably. Fortune, banked...child, conceived.” He nips at my neck with each task and I gasp, my hands roaming his body, absorbing the heat building in his skin and shifting my legs to feel his growing arousal, to share mine with him. “Since you are already with child, there’s no need for me to mate with you again for some time, now is there?”

“There is plenty need right here,” I moan and revel in the feel of him against me. “And perhaps I keep you about for me to love,” I say and he slowly lifts his head. 

I mourn the loss of his lips on me, but in their temporary loss, I gain the sight of a loving look so deep and profound that I feel tears of joy burning my eyes. A few escape down my cheek as his lips find mine and my eyes close to enjoy the sensations. His hand caressing through my hair, holding my head steady as he kisses me, makes me dizzy with passion. Eventually he lifts his head again and this time, I see worry in his eyes. He traces the tracks of the tears on my cheeks with his thumbs

“But it is not a guarantee that my inheritance will last,” he says. “We are about to adopt one child and bring another into the world. I wish for them to have a solid home, as much as we can manage to provide for them.”

I curl in on myself a little. He is right, of course. When my father passes, be it soon or years from now, Peeta and I will have no place to call home. If Father’s accident and coma earlier this year revealed anything to me, it is that I do not wish to be caught unprepared, homeless. Peeta would dread the same occurrence, given his background. He would detest forcing such an awful experience on our children. We need to prepare for the eventuality now, while we are financially secure.

“You would leave me for medical school while I am to give birth?”

“No,” he reassures me. “I’ve been speaking with Dr. Aurelius about options. He believes my experience as a field medic gives me an advantage, practical knowledge that will make the bookish knowledge easier to absorb. He has been in contact with several of his colleagues at the medical school in Capitol, and they agree that if I were to act as his apprentice here at home, that would suffice for practical laboratory studies. I could study the texts and lectures primarily at home and by correspondence, traveling to Capitol for a handful of weeks each term to sit examinations. Henry and Angelica have already provided recommendations for my admittance and for the exceptions that would be made for me.”

“So you would only be gone a few weeks, every so often?”

“Yes,” he murmurs. “And not right away. We would have time with Miranda before I leave at all. When I do, you will still have your family here, but I wish to begin this soon, before things become uncertain for us. I want you to know… I do not wish to leave you or our family unless absolutely necessary. If it is too much, I can find another path.”

I bite my lip and consider it for a moment, finally nodding. “You would make a fine doctor, husband. I would place my life in your hands with no qualms.”

“Such faith in me,” he says with a smile and I kiss it from his lips.

“You will write to me and our children while you are gone?”

“Of course,” he vows between kisses.

“I will expect fervent love, drawings, and salacious poetry in your letters to me, Peeta.”

“Anything for you, Katniss,” he promises, and I give up on talking then. We’ve said all we need to for now, at least with words.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The days that follow are a flurry of activity. The post arrives, a mountain of letters delayed by the washed out bridge and the weather. There are several from Peeta that he wrote to me before he began his journey home. I devour them and use them as examples, like a school teacher instructing a student on proper letter writing. 

“Much improvement, husband. This is more the sort of letter your wife would wish to receive,” I say with a superior voice and a lift of my nose.

Among the letters is also word from Mr. Burbank, Haymitch’s solicitor, and after I set Peeta’s concerns about me traveling while I am with child to rest, preparations begin in earnest for our journey to de Vale and then Capitol. Peeta and I announce our intentions to travel, and in regards to his sister. My father asks only if we are certain, and when I assert that we are, he makes a few, quiet suggestions. At first, I balk, but my father shakes his head.

“Your mother and I are done adding to this family. You and Peeta, if I can still arrange things the way we have discussed, will eventually be in charge of Everdeen. With a growing family as well...you will need the space and the privacy.”

My mother then leaps from her seat and begins ordering the alterations to rooms and the house that will be needed for the new addition. Maysilee hears only that there will soon be another young girl in the house and asks me if Miranda will be her sister.

“Not exactly, but you may welcome her as you would your sister,” I attempt to explain.

“Will she steal my face?” Maysilee asks before burying her face in Madge’s neck and Madge smiles but consoles her daughter.

“No darling, she will be a sister with her own face. Just as you wanted.”

In all the furious preparations, I swing violently between strange moods. One moment, I will be overcome with nausea and spurn the touch of anyone and everyone. My temper foul and my body a churning vat of ill.

Then the next, I will recover and insatiable desire will replace the nausea. Peeta grows exasperated with the rapid, unprompted swings with my moods, but takes it all with a smile, teasing me instead of losing his temper with me. The morning before we are to depart, I wake at an obscenely early hour, burning with fever. Not the kind that can be cured with my mother’s medicines and herbs but only with my husband’s body, and I wake him up rather rudely, demanding that he cure me.

He obliges me, loves me again and again with every inch of his being until we are two gasping, sweat covered, satisfied lumps of flesh laying limp in our bed. At least, I think myself to be satisfied until he groans at the late hour and heaves himself towards the edge of our bed. My body plucks awake again, insisting that I must get my fill now, for I’ve no idea what we will be facing in the coming weeks, no idea how often we will be able to indulge ourselves in one another.

“Get back in bed, husband. I am not finished with you yet,” I growl.

Peeta turns to me, an exasperated look on his face as he retrieves his shirt from the foot of the bed where I threw it earlier. “We will need to eat and see to our guests at some point today.”

“So many guests!” I whine. “When do they leave? When do we leave?”

“They leave today. We leave tomorrow.”

“They can see themselves to the door. I’ve no idea why they all stayed so long.”

“Must be your charming hospitality,” he says and I snort, rising up to kneel behind him and kissing over his shoulders. He stops dressing himself, his arms in his sleeves and his head turned slightly towards me. I lick up the side of his neck, enjoying the way this makes him shiver, the taste of his perspiration and his post coital scent an irresistible aphrodisiac to me now. I throb and yearn for him again, even though we’ve spent the entire morning abed. He moans and I know I will not need to convince him much to give me what I want.

“I never want so many people here again,” I whisper and bite his earlobe. “Too many interruptions from what I truly wish to be doing.”

“And yet, you are the one insisting on all these new additions to our family. I should think you fond of a full to bursting house.”

“Such lies, husband!” I accuse. “You want our children as well!”

He laughs, turning fully and tackling me to the bed, our guests forgotten for a few minutes more as he holds my thighs open and I must cover my face with a pillow to stifle the sounds I make as his mouth and tongue and fingers love me once more. He whispers such filthy words about my taste as he loves me, how he craves it on his tongue more than air. How he wants to fill our home with at least a dozen children and eagerly looks forward to planting his seed in me for each of our future children over the years to come. The need in me ebbs and flows like the tides, inexorably higher and higher to a devastating release.

And as I ride it out, I know. I know that nothing could now make me cease loving him. Nothing could make him cease loving me, no matter the changes and challenges the future brings. We will go into it as one.


	24. Chapter 24

The morning we leave Everdeen dawns cold and grey. Frost covers the ground and a chill seeps from the stones through my boots as I make my way outside to the stables. Inside is warm, the pungent scent of horse and hay heavy in the air. Peeta is already here, silent as he communicates somehow with Cicero, through touch alone. Peeta turns to give me a wan smile, alerted to my presence by the response of both horses to my scent. We have chosen to leave our mounts here at Everdeen, in Johanna’s able care, and will travel by carriage, but we cannot leave them without a farewell. We stand side by side as we do so.

When we leave the stables, my hand seeks out Peeta’s and he twines our gloved fingers together. We walk with matched steps towards the carriage, two well worn trunks tied to the top and a quartet of horses waiting, stamping their hooves in the chill air to keep warm. Frederick sits atop the box, draped in coats and scarves and blankets for warmth.

We embrace and bid farewell to our family. The last time I left, it was with determination and trepidation. I feel those same things again this morning as Madge murmurs words of encouragement to me. Yet there is more inside me. As I ascend into the carriage, my fingers tucked into Peeta’s as he assists me, I also feel a joyful sort of anticipation.

The carriage leaves, and we wave to those we leave behind until they are out of sight, faded into the distance. I ensure that my healing kit is secure beneath my seat, then I seize one of the fresh, warm blankets Sae stocked the carriage with and leap across to the opposite seat to sit beside him.

Peeta laughs as I insert myself in his arms, pressed tight to his body. He adjusts the blankets about us, creating a cocoon of comfort. “Much better,” I declare as he leans down and kisses the tip of my nose.

The journey takes several days, all of which begin cold, and gradually warm to a comfortable temperature by afternoon. Night brings the chill once again. As we travel north, the cold only permeates deeper, lasts longer, until the day is nothing but cold. We spend our time in the carriage seated as close as possible, talking or reading, and on one especially dull stretch of road...kissing madly. Peeta’s hand wanders beneath my skirts, toying with the ribbons on my stockings and teasing me until my thighs quiver with the need for him to touch me, to bring me to climax on those clever fingers of his. 

Unfortunately, just as I think we’re getting somewhere, we reach our midday stop and he withdraws his hand. I consider pleading ill and demanding we take a room at the inn for the night rather than merely stopping for sustenance, but this is not a purely pleasurable trip. We’ve a child waiting for us and can not afford to tarry longer than planned.

After our noon meal that day, I curl up and sleep, content and warm, reclined against Peeta’s shoulder. There are occasional unplanned stops when the nausea and dizziness overwhelm and I can no longer withstand the jostling of the carriage. On those stops, I must run for the side of the road. Peeta is unfailingly there to help me right myself and to comfort me after. He is, for the entire journey, perfectly solicitous and perhaps a tiny bit overly protective of me. I feel it in the way he guides me in and out of establishments when we stop, in the way he uses his body as a physical shield between mine and strangers. It is in the way he tucks me into blankets and confers with Frederick to ensure everything is safe and secure before we depart. His knife always near at hand, even when we are locked in our room for the night and tucked into bed.

At night, we sleep bodies pressed tight together on cramped inn beds, too tired to engage in much beyond holding one another and a few murmured words before we sleep. Besides that, I am uncertain of the cleanliness of these beds and their comfort leaves much to be desired, so I restrict myself to chaste nights with my husband. De Vale will certainly have clean, comfortable beds for us to make use of and provide time for us to better rest.

Peeta does not seem to mind. In fact, the closer we get to de Vale, the more distant he becomes. At first, I am annoyed and hurt by this, but then I think about what it must mean to him, what it must take to fulfill this request -- no this  _ demand _ \-- from the man who might biologically be his father but whom is such only because he raped Peeta’s mother. What a sticky, uncomfortable position that must have constantly put Peeta in as a young man, even now as a man fully grown. Their relationship forever one part reluctant gratitude and one part utter loathing.

I cannot fathom how he handles it and manage my annoyance at his growing distance by lacing my fingers with his, kissing his cheek, and murmuring that I love him and that he can speak to me if he wishes to. 

On the third day of travels, Peeta shifts uncomfortably, waking me from a nap after a fitful night of sleep. “What is it?”

“We’ve reached the border of de Vale,” he says simply.

“Oh good. I could use a cup of tea and a long stroll to stretch my legs,” I say and Peeta caresses over my cheek, tilting my lips up to his.

“I’m afraid that is still a few hours away, my love.”

“What?” I ask and practically crawl across his lap to lift the curtain and stare out at the lands. 

Sharply sloped hills lead to craggy cliffs. Snow twirls through the air, tossed about by haphazard winds. The land is grey and brown and dismal, the snow sticking to the ground in patches without accumulation that make it appear… spotted and ugly. There is no sign of a house or a lane.

Peeta shifts me so that I may see better, ties back the curtain. I shiver and he wraps his arms and the blanket around me.

“It’s so...cold,” I say and he nods.

“And we’re not even to the house yet.”

I snort and set my hands over his so he will continue to hold me. “Is it truly another several hours’ journey?”

“Yes,” he says and I sigh. 

We pass the next few hours sharing only scattered words. I would demand he put his hands under my skirts again to distract him, except he seems so agitated that I am uncertain of his response. As we draw closer, I can no longer stand the silence.

“Should we pretend to be miserable together? Would that satisfy the Marquis enough to hasten our visit?”

“It does not matter how we present ourselves. He will think he has won somehow.” I have no answer for that and turn a quizzical look towards Peeta. He runs a hand through his hair, disturbing the carefully styled curls that have behaved themselves all morning since we left the inn, but he explains. “If we are miserable, he will delight in it and claim it is because it is what we deserve. If we are happy, he will claim credit for that and arrogantly assume it is all his influence.”

I snort at this and make another suggestion. “And if we are silent and apathetic?”

“Close enough to miserable for him delight in that as well.”

“Are you not supposed to be making me like this man? He is technically your father.”

“He was never my father, not in any real sense. More of a benefactor.” Peeta looks out the window, away from me. His jaw tense and his frame rigid in his seat. I slide across the carriage seat to wrap my arms around him and kiss one cheek, then the other, claiming his attention.

“Then we might as well be just as we are, husband, no pretending, no games.”

“And what are we, wife?”

“Madly in love and ridiculously happy, of course,” I tell him and he smiles. 

“That is an act I can manage quite easily, for it is no act at all,” he says and we distract ourselves with kisses for a few minutes.

Then the carriage slows and curiosity gets the better of me. I lean against the window as we turn down a lane marked with a massive stone archway, carved with intricate statuary. Angels pluck harps, wild stag flank the entrance, a fox scampers low to the ground. There are words inscribed at the apex of the arch, but I do not have a chance to read them before we are beneath it and moving on.

Peeta shifts again and when I turn to him, he is tugging at his collar as though it chokes him. I take his hand and pull it away. Our eyes meet and I tend to his collar and cravat, ensuring that it is once more perfect.

“Thank you.”

“It is just a cravat,” I whisper and I see my own feelings reflected in his eyes. We both know he means to thank me for far more than a bit of knotted silk. “And what of my appearance?”

“Perfect, although I now wish I had more time to have you looking well kissed,” he says with a slow, lopsided smile that makes me feel as though I could brave just about anything with Peeta by my side.

“I am always well kissed if you are present, husband.”

It seems to take an age to traverse the lane, almost as long as it would take to travel the breadth of Everdeen in its entirety, and still I am not prepared when the house finally comes into view.

“That is a castle… not a house,” I say and Peeta chuckles, the sound rather dark, but I shake my head, wondering how he can laugh. I imagine him as a boy, frightened and facing this for the first time. I am a woman fully grown and I feel the urge to run and hide at the imposing facade. “How terrified you must have been coming here for the first time.”

“It was not the first such manor I had seen. I grew up on one.” I glance back at him and scowl, waiting for the truth. He shrugs and examines his gloved fingers, folded in his lap. “It is quite different entering through the front door of one of these places as opposed to the servants’ entrances… So yes. I was petrified. By the time the Marquis brought me here, I had been living as part of his household for nearly six months and had already made an infinite number of errors, been at the sharp end of a strap countless times. At first, I feared the Marquis would toss me from the moving carriage on the road somewhere between Capitol and here and be done with me. I think in some ways I almost hoped for that to happen.”

“But he did not,” I say and Peeta nods.

“My presence kept Robert occupied and entertained so that the Marquis could read his papers the entire journey. I suppose he saw me as useful for the first time after that.”

My scowl and my dislike of the Marquis only deepens. Peeta takes my hand and squeezes once as the carriage reaches the courtyard. As soon as it halts, the door is opened.

“Master Mellark. Welcome home,” a nasal voice greets and Peeta gives the man a half smile that is more grimace than anything else as he heaves himself from the carriage.

“Thank you, Branson. How is Anastasia?”

“Ill with the grippe again, sir.” He sounds more annoyed than worried and I wonder at this.

“My condolences. I presume Doctor Hassel has been to see her?”

“We expect him this afternoon, sir.”

“Good,” Peeta says and extends his hand to me. I take it and carefully descend. “Branson, my wife, Katniss Mellark.”

“An honour, Madame,” says the dour looking man as he bows to me. He snaps upright and spins about, waving his hands in some sort of signal. A handful of servants descends on the carriage as Peeta and I slowly walk towards the front of the house. A carved archway, identical to the one over the gate, frames the front door, a massive and imposing thing of polished wood with ornate handles and knockers that I am not certain I could even grasp, they are so thick. I can make out the words on the archway this time and read them.

“ _ Non ducor, duco _ .”

“I am not led, I lead,” Peeta translates and I shudder. From what I know of the Marquis, he is the last sort of man who should be allowed to lead anyone. Controlling and manipulative, cruel and untouchable, amoral yet seen as an example.

As we ascend the stairs, a woman with regal bearing and dressed in deep shades of purple steps onto the wide verandah, her hands folded in front of her.

“Whatever you do, do not give in to her bait,” he says under his breath. “She will attempt to have you screeching in anger or crying in despair at some point during this visit.”

“You wait to tell me this now?” I ask and he sighs.

“I feared that if I told you, you’d abandon me to face this alone,” his voice carries a slight whine and I cannot help but laugh at his discomfort.

“How many times must I remind you, husband…”

“You are not so fragile,” he finishes with a smile at me, but it fades as we reach the verandah. His usual, easy expression vanishes in favor of one far more somber than I am used to seeing. It is an expression suited to a funeral, not a homecoming.

“You grace us with your presence at last,” the woman calls out as we reach the top.

“Lady Mellark,” Peeta says when we halt in front of her. He bows and I curtsy, but I keep my eyes on this woman, who could have been my mother in law and instead is now simply a nuisance to me. “May I present my—“

“I know precisely who she is. The chit who was not exceptional enough for my Robert.”

Lady Tabitha Mellark is rather petite and delicate looking. Her brown hair a light shade, close to that of some of the reeds that grow alongside the lakes of Everdeen. Her nose tilts up the smallest amount and her green eyes seem almost vacant and unseeing, or perhaps bored as she flicks her gaze over us, dismisses us both. I add haughty and bitter to my list of descriptors for her.

“I am pleased to meet you, Lady Mellark,” I say in as sweet a voice as I can muster.

“Hm. Well, you’re not as pretty as a Mellark wife ought to be, but at least you are only married to an illegitimate son.” I’ve no idea how to respond to such insults and hold my tongue, refusing, as Peeta suggested, to rise to her bait. “Branson will see you to your rooms. Tea in an hour. Do not keep me waiting.” 

Her edicts delivered, she spins about, her skirts flaring and her slippers clicking on stone then marble as she leaves us in the doorway.

“That went well, I think.”

“No bloodshed, tears, or screeching. I deem that a rousing success,” Peeta says and I laugh. The sound bounces off the walls as we enter the hall and I spot at least one servant who is startled by the noise.

We are barely over the threshold when a silent servant pauses in front of Peeta and presents a silver tray with a folded and sealed piece of parchment on it. I attempt to hide my surprise as Peeta accepts it with a murmured thanks and the servant disappears. He opens it, the sounds unbearably loud in the hall. As he reads, I examine the foyer and understand in an instant why Peeta implied that the house itself would seem far colder than the weather outside.

The place is a monument to wealth but feels nothing like a home. The foyer alone would hold one whole wing of Everdeen. Ornate fixtures and paintings turn the walls into a veritable museum. Tall narrow windows admit the faint winter light but the heavy, dark blue velvet drapes that hang in perfect shapes to imitate waterfalls give more the feeling of entrapment. I cannot help comparing the shimmering crystal chandeliers, and perfectly polished marble floors with no carpets to add warmth to the room with the warm tones, abundance of fabrics, the sturdy metal light fixtures, and worn wooden floors of Everdeen. The sprawling ceilings of de Vale to the cozy comfort of my own home.

I shiver and Peeta grumbles as he pockets the note, turning to rub warmth into my arms. “I am summoned already. Will you be alright getting us settled on your own?”

“I will be fine,” I assure him and tilt my head back to accept his soft kiss, a reassurance that I need before I watch him walk across the hall in one direction while the dour butler named Branson leads me down a hallway and up a flight of stairs in the other direction. The hallway on the second floor is lined with gleaming wooden doors on one side and more of the massively tall and narrow windows with their suffocating, imitation waterfall drapes on the other. Still no carpets. I will need to wear shoes at all times in this place.

I am pleasantly surprised by the room Branson shows me to, however. The wealth in it is still an excess and a little intimidating, but there is a cheery fire in the hearth, several thick rugs to hold the warmth, and the bed appears luxurious and inviting. Decorated in cheering yellows and warm green tones, the room is a circle of spring in a vast winter prison. It is the nicest piece of de Vale I’ve yet seen. A maid bobs a curtsy and scurries from the room as the butler mutters something to her. I do not hear the words, but I do hear the biting tone.

“Welcome to de Vale, Madame,” the butler says to me with a bow. “Lucy will be in shortly to assist in your unpacking. If there is anything you need, the bells are on the wall.”

“The bells?” I ask and turn towards where he gestured. A quartet of velvet cords all with etched placards.  _ Kitchens. Laundry. Personal Maids. Housekeeping.  _ “How efficient,” I mutter but when I turn around, Branson has disappeared. 

In his place, a footman carries in my trunk and sets it near the bed. He bows and is gone before I can even speak. It is strange and coldly efficient and...aggravating. A maid appears on his heels, not the one from before, and curtsies before moving towards my trunk.

“There’s no need,” I say and she purses her lips.

“You do not wish to unpack?”

“I can manage for myself,” I say and smile at the girl. She’s young. Barely older than Prim, if I had to guess. This must be Lucy.

“But the Mistress…” 

“Oh there is no need to worry about that. She’s no need to know that I unpacked my own things.” The maid stands there, looking confused and something strikes me then. “Where is…where is my husband’s luggage?” 

“It would have been taken to his rooms,” Lucy states as though that is obvious.

“ _ His _ rooms? Next door then?” I look about for a door to an adjoining room, for surely that must be what the maid means by _ his _ rooms, but I see none.

“No, ma’am. His rooms are in the east wing, with the family.”

“And what is this?” I ask, growing more aggravated by the second.

“This is the west wing...for guests.” I stare at her and she shifts her weight on her feet. 

“For guests,” I say and clench my teeth. Whether this is Lady Full of Insults or Lord High and Mighty Mellark’s doing, the message is clear. I am not welcome. I am a guest, an interloper, and despite our marriage, despite that they never truly loved him as I do, Peeta somehow still belongs to them, not to me. 

“Shall I unpack your things now?”

“Indeed not,” I say and move towards the door. 

Glancing up and down the hallway I hail yet another servant who is carrying a parcel of firewood down the hall. “You there! Do you know your way about this monstrosity?”

“Er...me?”

“Yes, you. There is no one else presently in the hall.” He glances about him and seems almost surprised that he is in fact alone. “Where is that firwood bound?”

“The Neptune Room….just there.” He tilts his head towards the door adjacent to mine and I nod.

“Very well. If you would be so kind as to deliver your firewood and then return to assist me with my things? Oh I suppose I should ask...are you capable of carrying them to Mr. Peeta Mellark’s rooms?”

“Master Peeta’s room?” The man gapes and turns nearly puce at the mention of the name. I gather my skirts and my temper as I respond.

“Yes. He is my husband and by some error, I seem to have been banished to the far reaches of Egypt instead of placed with him.” Lucy the maid snorts and the man still gapes at me. “Can you assist me?”

“Assist you with your things?”

“Yes,” I say and smile. “Unless I need ask Branson to--”

“No!” The man nearly shouts then clears his throat. “No need, Madame. I can see to your needs.” He scurries down the hall and I grasp hold of my healing kit. The footman returns, wiping his hands on his trousers and lifts my trunk. “This way.”

Lucy follows us, despite my earlier assurance that I do not require her assistance. It is a bit of a long journey, winding through the halls to the other side of the house, and when we reach it, there’s little difference in the decor. Wealth drips from the trimmings and trappings and yet none of it appears loved or worn or even lived in. The place is spotless. Even as a bright shaft of sunlight pierces the gloom outside and lays across the floor, I find no dust motes dancing in the illuminated air. I feel as though one must tiptoe in a place such as this and place a protective palm over my womb, as though our mere presence in such a soul sucking place might snatch the life growing inside me straight from my body.

Then I catch Peeta’s voice coming from an open door that spills warm firelight and the welcome tones I am now so familiar with into the hallway. I hurry around the footman and ignore his mild protest as I come to a halt in the doorway.

“Oh. Forgive the intrusion,” I say as two sets of eyes turn towards me. One set is blue and belongs to my husband, the other is green and belongs to a man of similar build and vaguely similar features, though not an exact replica. His hair is stick straight and a soft shade of light brown, the exact shade as Lady Mellark’s. He is undeniably handsome, impeccably dressed, and his lips quirk as we stand examining one another.

“Ah, Katniss this is Ethan,” Peeta explains, motioning towards his brother.

“So I gathered,” I say and manage a slight curtsy as the eldest Mellark son examines me from a distance. No matter, I am doing the same, attempting to determine if this is an ally or a foe. Peeta’s only spoken of him in vague terms. I keep my eyes on Ethan and aim my words at Peeta. “I’ve had my things moved.”

“Moved?” Peeta asks and I nod.

“Yes, it seems there was some mistake that placed me in the west wing. Lovely room, but the distance to the dining room and parlor seemed rather formidable. I suppose with such a large house and so many guests in and out that it is a mistake that must happen at least once. I’ve seen it remedied and had my things moved to your rooms, husband, with the assistance of this fine man.” I motion towards the footman still balancing my trunk.

“Jefferies?” Peeta asks and the footman shifts nervously on his feet.

“Yes, sir. I’ll just deliver this and be back to my chores,” the footman says and shuffles down the hall several doors. I then examine the room where Ethan and Peeta stand and notice the family crest, complete with the motto in Latin, woven into the tapestry on one wall. A portrait of the Marquis and Marchioness hanging over the mantle along with a pair of crossed swords. A door leading into a separate bedroom, for this is only an antechamber, a sitting room. This is the room of a first born son and heir, I realise -- Ethan’s room, not Peeta’s. I flush at my blunder before taking a step back.

“Well. I think I shall go freshen up for tea. Wouldn’t want to be late,” I say and incline my head towards them before sliding down the hall.

“Good lord. You were not exaggerating,” I hear Ethan say with laughter in his voice. I would take offense at this seeming insult, but Peeta’s answer comes with a clear note of admiration in it, the words themselves praise as well.

“Not in the least. The heart of a lioness.” 

“She’ll need it. Mother’s itching for a squall.”

“Is that why you’re here without Sarah and the children?”

“Partly, though now I regret it. I feel as though your wife and mine might make a formidable pairing.”

“Crafty, unstoppable, and terrifying,” Peeta answers, his words slightly muffled as though uttered into a glass near his mouth. Ethan laughs at this.

So the Marchioness is itching for a squall, is she? I’ve no need to hear any more. I roll my shoulders back and march towards the door through which the footman disappeared. 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

At first glance, I thought his room to be much like the others -- imposing with its impeccable wealth and taste, cold in its impersonal attempts at intimidation, masculine with its heavy woods and dark draperies -- but the longer I examine it, the more I notice the small touches of Peeta hidden throughout. 

A well worn sofa before the fire with plush cushions and even a large footstool. I examine the thing and make notes to add such a piece to our own sitting area. A low shelf with books, both for reading and for sketching. A box tucked next to the sofa filled with watercolors and charcoals. He should bring those with him when we depart. A cane leaning against the mantle, the handle worn smooth. We should take that as well, as he mentioned that sometimes the cold weather aggravates his leg and makes walking difficult. 

Paintings adorn the wall, not the classic portraiture in heavy gilt frames meant to impose feelings of gratitude for the Lord and Lady, but a wide landscape painted directly on the plaster walls, sprawling green fields and gentle rolling hills dotted with sheep and trees, up to the ceiling painted as a sky around the ornate mouldings. It looks very much like Everdeen and I wonder who painted it.

As Lucy and I unpack, I open a rather ancient looking wardrobe to perhaps hang my dress for dinner and startle at the black as night coat trimmed in blood red and moonlight silver that greets me. Peeta’s uniform. It is ready to be worn again, odd for a garment that has spent more than a year hanging here unused and will likely never be worn again. The bright brass buttons are polished to a high shine and the silver braiding over the cuffs and lapels gleams even in the faint winter light, the red collar stands at attention. I reach out and run my hand over the shoulder, turning it slightly and staring at the decorations pinned to the breast. A regimental insignia and an ornate cross hanging from a short bit of red ribbon. I slide my hand beneath it and read the words etched into the polished silver.

_ Cum Fortitudine et Honore _

My Latin is patchy at best, primarily focused on botany and the natural sciences, but even I can decipher the phrase. “With Courage and Honour.” Did my husband receive some sort of medal of valour then? I’ve no answer and will not find it here. I step back away from the thing and then step forward again to push it into the shadows. Then I hang several of my dresses next to Peeta’s other coats, ones I recognize, to better hide the reminder of where the Marquis sent Peeta to disappear, to perhaps die.

By the time Peeta joins me, I have freshened up and changed my dress with assistance from Lucy, and am now enjoying some quiet time to myself. I sit on the sofa, gazing into the fire and tapping my nails on my teeth, forming a battle plan as best I can to prepare for tea. The sound of the door shutting startles me and I relax when I see Peeta leaning against the panel.

“Who is Jeffries?” I ask and Peeta shakes his head, but he’s smiling.

“Straight as an arrow and right to the ugly. Jeffries used to be Robert’s valet. After Robert eloped with Delly, the Marquis dismissed him. Or at least, I thought he had. Ethan tells me that Jeffries begged for mercy. His wife was with child at the time, they now have a newborn infant. She had been one of the seamstresses the Marchioness employs. Now she is a laundry maid and he is a footman. A significant pay cut and demotion for them both, and I suspect something else possibly unsettling although I cannot yet be sure, but at least they are not starving on the streets.”

“Such generosity,” I sneer and Peeta moves to sit beside me. “I should think he deserves a raise, not a demotion.”

Peeta laughs and turns my face to kiss me. “I did consider hiring him, and his wife.”

“Really?”

“Yes, but as I was not certain you would want to add any more bodies to our household right now, I did not wish to make a decision without consulting you.”

“I think it inspired! As thanks for the great favour he did us both. Although I think we should warn poor Jeffries that a post as your valet will be most trying.”

“As will a post as your seamstress,” Peeta says, encircling me with his arms. I care not if he will wrinkle my dress. I feel that I need this moment with him before we take the field against the Mellarks, and it seems that he does too, as we both quickly yield to the need to kiss one another.

“Your room is the most welcoming in the house,” I say forlornly when he lifts his head, and he sighs. 

“It was not when it first became mine. It required several years of secret alterations and at least a dozen arguments with Lady Mellark to make it so.” I tilt my head and gaze into his eyes, trying to imagine what that must have felt like.

“We should give Miranda a choice of rooms.”

“That or give her the option to change whatever she wishes, to make her feel at home, as though she has some form of choice,” Peeta agrees. We pass what time we have left before tea just like that, murmuring soft plans for our future with an adopted child. Ensuring that we are in agreement, a united front as parents, before we even sign the papers for her custody. We need not even say why, but being here in this house makes it clear to me what sort of parents we do not wish to be.

Eventually, we can tarry no longer and Peeta leads me down the halls and into the parlor. I feel as though I am being crushed almost the moment I enter. The ceiling soars to a painting of angels and demons locked in some sort of combat and the dark shades of burgundy and purple make me think the walls are bleeding. What a pleasant room for tea.

My fingers clench on Peeta’s arm as Ethan joins us. The two of them resume their conversation as though nothing is amiss. Ethan shares news of Sarah and his children, his voice happy and light. He speaks of a place called Medora and Peeta explains that it is one of the family’s lesser properties, acquired as part of a dowry nearly a century ago.

“The place is gothic but Sarah adores it,” Ethan explains. “Until we moved in, it rarely saw any use. Now it is thriving. You should visit for Christmas sometime. Sarah sees the place decorated with so much green it feels near to summer inside. The children fashion ornaments to hang from all those grim suits of armour in the hall.”

“That sounds lovely,” I manage to say, because the more Ethan speaks about his family, the more I think he was right. I grow to like the sound of his wife and his family and wonder at how the first born son and heir wound up so different from the current Marquis. How did he avoid the influence and shaping his personality after his father as so many young men attempt to do?

We’ve sat and talked for close to a half hour before Lady Tabitha finally deigns to join us. It is rather annoying, her tardiness after her insistence that we not be late. Tardiness is apparently reserved for the titled and wealthy, the privilege of others excusing your poor manners due to your wealth. She sweeps into the room with a maid bearing tea service in trail.

“Mother, you look well,” Ethan greets and stands, as does Peeta. Ethan kisses her cheek lightly when she turns it up for him. She sweeps right past Peeta with no acknowledgement and stands in front of me.

“You will serve, and you will not embarrass this family,” she orders and then turns to carefully arrange her skirts before sitting, prim and stiff. She watches me closely, every movement of mine under scrutiny. What little conversation we have is stiff and formal.

“Sugar?”

“Two lumps, if you please...no not that one. Those are stuck together.”

“How were the roads, Ethan?”

“Cold and barren but not much ice yet. It should still be safe for me to return to Sarah as planned.”

“Hmmm and how do you find de Vale so far….?” It takes a moment for me to realise she addresses me since she gives no name.

“Magnificent. I do so love the mural in our rooms. Is the artist still living or was that done some time ago?”

“Mural? What mural? There is no mural in the Proserpina Room.”

“Oh no, Madame. I am not staying in the Proserpina Room, but with my husband.” I say and take a delicate sip of my tea. Ethan attempts to hide his smile as Lady Mellark turns to Peeta.

“I suppose this was your doing? Countermanding me again? Have you no shame?” Before he can answer, she moves on. “I suppose you’ve grown accustomed to how things are done in a less refined area of the country. How do you find your new residence?”

“Thriving and fertile, madame.” Her face colours at these words and the bare minimum of courtesy seen to, she returns focus to her son.

“The children should come home for Christmas, Ethan.” 

“We would, Mother, except Sarah is...well not feeling well lately.”

“Is she with child?”

“No, Mother. We’ve spoken about this.”

“It is ridiculous. You need a second son. I bore three. Sarah can manage two.”

“She had great difficulty with Genevieve. We do not wish to risk--”

“Pish. Motherhood is  _ sacrifice _ . Marriage to a Marquis is a  _ duty _ . She must be willing to make the sacrifice and perform her duties to carry on the name or not be a mother at all. Really Ethan, you have been married far too long for her to be so derelict. You must guide her in these matters if her understanding is so lacking.”

Somewhere in this exchange, I begin to wonder if there is nightshade or perhaps hemlock growing anywhere on the grounds. I might attempt more pepper in the tea at the very least if that would cease her damnable judgements, only I fear some poor servant would feel her wrath instead of me, much like Jefferies. While I am contemplating lacing her tea with poison, Peeta devises an entirely different method of dealing with her. 

“If it is the continuation of the Mellark name you worry for, my lady, then there is still much hope. Katniss and I are happy to announce that we are expecting.”

“Indeed we are. Sometime in the summer,” I confirm and bat my lashes shamelessly at Peeta.

Ethan coughs violently into his tea and I bask in the angry flush that sprouts around Lady Tabitha’s collar and quickly spreads up her neck to her face. 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Lady Tabitha does not attend dinner, begging off with a headache and choosing to take her meal in her chambers. The Marquis does attend dinner, however, and my opinion of him remains unchanged from our first meeting. I search for redeeming qualities in him, as he must have something redeeming, but by the end of the meal, I am convinced that any good qualities he can lay claim to are not truly his...they belong to his sons. 

The Marquis spends the time interrogating me on everything from the health of my father and my uncle to the status of our harvest to Peeta’s announcement at tea that I am with child. He sneers at most of my responses and I see precisely what Peeta meant in the carriage. The man clearly believes the world revolves around him. The arrogance, conceit, the need to lay claim to and control every aspect of his miniscule environment is astonishing and infuriating. I am struck with the insane urge to call the man out for a duel for the sheer audacity of insulting my husband at every turn. I care not that he was somewhat generous in financially providing for Peeta. He is a wretched father. To all his sons.

I am forced to sit next to Ethan, Peeta across the table from me. I would complain and pitch a fit, except that he has shifted his seat so that his booted foot is pressed up close to mine beneath the table. This small connection feeds me at least a touch of his steadiness and strength, bolstering me enough to deal with the constant line of questioning and beratement, and the fact that I am unable to finish a single course.

The food appears, enticing in aroma and appearance. Clearly the Marquis employs only the finest for his kitchen staff, yet I am not given opportunity to enjoy it. He asks the questions, I am expected to answer. I do so as quickly as possible, and Peeta does attempt to answer in my stead several times. Unfortunately, the Marquis seems to recognise this tactic of his and manages the conversation so that I am almost forced to answer, and before I can take more than a few bites, the dishes are whisked away, hardly touched in my case.

When dessert is finally cleared, I am ready to leap after the poor footman to claw my slice of cake from his grip and scarf it down in one bite.

“Thank you for the pleasure of your company,” the Marquis states, pulling my chair back and helping me from it when dinner is done. His touch on my hand has my skin crawling and I manage a forced smile as I compliment the excellence of the food. He nods as though it is expected, then turns to his two sons. “Shall we retire to the study?”

Peeta lingers, risking censure no doubt for the signs of affection he bestows on me. He leans over to whisper in my ear. “I have something waiting for you in our rooms. Don’t wander or it will spoil.”

I nod and fight back tears. I am tired and hungry, angry and heartsick and he is abandoning me to drink bourbon and smoke cigars in the study with his arrogant bastard of a father, sending me straight to bed like an errant child. Peeta gives me a gentle, lingering kiss on my cheek and then he is gone. I consider wandering about the halls against his advice, but I am so tired and fear another bout of nausea that I trudge back to our rooms.

When I arrive, I shut the door and am preparing to fling myself on the bed to have a good cry when I notice the massive silver tray with a domed cover sitting on the footstool before the fire. I hurry over and lift the cover, laughing and crying at the sight of an entire dinner, all of the courses I missed out on, waiting for me. I savor them and relish the tastes. One dish at a time. A creamy, yellow squash soup, a plate of cool greens and ripe cucumbers in a dressing flavored with dill. How did they manage cucumbers at this time of year? There must be a greenhouse for vegetables somewhere on the grounds. Roast quail and orange marmalade, crusty bread with rosemary. Beef braised in a dark almost cherry flavored wine sauce. Fluffy chocolate cake and a creamy white chocolate beverage.

When I finish with my feast, I ring for Lucy and dress for bed. When Peeta joins me, I am sitting on the footstool, warming myself by the fire and brushing my hair. 

“Thank you for the dinner,” I say softly. “It was delicious.”

“You should have been allowed to eat it at the table with the rest of us. I am sorry that I could not keep him from interrogating you so.”

“Hm,” I hum and chuckle slightly. “I begin to understand what you meant when you first described the reason for this visit.” He sits on the sofa behind me and takes the brush from my hands, assuming the task of brushing my hair.

“I used to despise this place, this room. I may have altered it to fit my tastes as much as possible, but it was still never truly mine. I was reminded of that constantly, reminded that I would always be unwelcome,” he whispers. I relax under his gentle ministrations and tilt my head so he may kiss my neck. I shiver at each intimate touch. I can smell the sweet smoke of cigar on him, but underneath that, unable to be fully doused or eradicated, I catch the scents of vetiver from Everdeen and Peeta’s skin. He is still mine, we are still us, despite what rifts the Marquis and Marchioness may attempt to cause. He sets the brush aside and begins braiding my hair for me. “You make it feel more like home than it ever could have before. I think because you have become my home, Katniss.” When he is done, he slides his arms around my waist, his palms spanning my stomach, protecting our child. “Should I apologise for my abrupt announcement at tea?”

“No,” I say as he once more kisses my neck, causing such delightful shivers to tremble through me. “No it was worth it to see her lose her grasp on her arrogance. If only we could come up with some such announcement to affect the Marquis.”

Peeta chuckles against my neck and continues kissing me. “She would have badgered Ethan another hour if no one shocked her out of it.” But I do not wish to speak of Ethan nor of Lady Mellark when there are much more pleasant things we could be doing.

“Peeta, I feel as you do. Everdeen is my home, but you are as well. We brought our home with us in a way. Let me show you?” I whisper and turn to face him. I kiss him, tasting the bourbon on his tongue, gently pushing him back to relax on the sofa, so that I might climb into his lap and curl up in his arms, to kiss him for as long as I wish to.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

“Do you know what I want right now?” I say into the stifling darkness of our rooms as we lay in bed, the moonlight a cool companion and the fire a crackling balm.

“Mmmm, I would not even attempt to guess at the desires of a pregnant lady. I however,” Peeta murmurs and pulls me roughly up against his chest, “would like a smaller bed so that my wife would cease wandering so far. I am beginning to miss those tiny beds at the inn.” 

I chuckle at this and wriggle deeper into his arms. My stomach makes a most unladylike noise then. “But clearly that will not be what you are wishing for so let’s have it, wife. Was the dinner I had sent in not enough?”

“It was at the time, but I am making a child. This requires great sustenance.”

“What do you need, my love? Say the word and it is yours.”

“Bread,” I say and sit up. “Fresh, warm bread.”

“Now that I think I can help with,” he says and joins me in sitting up. We are giddy as children as we pull on whatever clothing we have nearest and cover it with dressing robes and slippers. We scurry through the vast, empty halls, ignoring the cold and the snow as it falls outside the wide windows.

“When we were children and would sneak to the kitchens like this for a late snack, Robert and I would pretend the halls were haunted. We had to evade all the ghosts and goblins that inhabited the drapes at night.” I laugh as he continues telling me the story, imagining the two boys dodging spectres while in search of a tasty pudding or wedge of cheese.

We reach the massive kitchens and I gasp in appropriate awe. He laughs and fires up the ovens, inserts a loaf that has finished rising to bake. Then he quickly sheds his dressing robe and rolls up his sleeves. I do the same and stand before the wide table.

“Teach me?” He smiles and turns me so that he stands behind me, his arms around me and his hands guiding mine as we flour the surface then mix the ingredients and work the dough together. As we knead, he murmurs instructions. It is heady, rhythmic work, coaxing the dough into something usable and nourishing. I barely hear his words, my entire body alive and pulsing with warmth at performing the simple task with him. When our bread is set aside to rise and the loaf he placed in the oven sits sliced on the counter, emitting curls of steam and burning my fingertips as I grasp a slice, I smile and hoist myself onto the plank, kicking my feet as he moves to stand near me.

“Tell me about your father.” A cloud passes over his eyes and I shake my head, grasp hold of his shirt and pull him closer, to stand between my knees. “No. Not him. I meant the baker. William Thackeray. Tell me more about him.” 

“He was...kind and quiet, but when he spoke, it was always worth listening. He...he always had a story to tell me, some about the people on the estate, many more that I’ve no idea where he came up with them. Perhaps they were born of his own mind.” 

Peeta’s face relaxes then, and as he speaks and we eat, the kitchen fills with warmth and light, laughter and evident love. The cold intimidation of this place cannot touch us here. He tells me the stories. About the man who raised him, taught him kindness and to view the world as it ought to be rather than how it is. Who taught him the importance of acting as one ought rather than as one can get away with. A man who could spin tales from nothing but sugar and air and coaxing them from words the way we did bread from dough.

“I wish I could have met him,” I say when he falls silent and Peeta nods, lifts my hand to his lips.

“As do I. He would have adored you, but then… you and I likely never would have married. Probably never even met, had he lived.” The truth of Peeta’s statement does little to dull the regret that I see in his eyes, that I feel in my soul. I shift my arms to wrap around his neck and hold him close, close enough to remove all of the cold air between us, close enough to wrap my legs around him and bring him closer still. Peeta buries his face in my hair, his strong arms around me and his lips just touching my neck, sending warmth spiraling through me, down to my toes. My fingers twist strands of his hair and this...this moment here feels far too good to let it end.

“I think I am ready to sleep now, husband.” I eventually say when a loud yawn over takes me.

“Sleep or…is there something else you require, now that you are fed?” He lifts one eyebrow at me and I laugh.

“No, sleep will suffice. We will need our rest for the morning. I am sure the Marchioness will have regrouped and be prepared with fresh salvos readied for breakfast.”

Peeta laughs and hand in hand, we return upstairs to our bed where he holds me close to him through the long, cold night.


	25. Chapter 25

The days pass much like the first. I see little of the Marquis, although he does send word every so often, summoning Peeta to his side for one thing or another. When I am forced to be in the Marquis’ presence, I am constantly unsettled, uncertain if the roiling nausea is due to pregnancy or to the way in which Peeta’s father regards me, like some sort of specimen to be dissected and then consumed. He frightens me with his cold blue eyes that could be Peeta’s, his joyless smile that could be Peeta’s. His well crafted biting words and insults that could be Peeta’s, for even in his cruelty I can recognise the talent with words that his son wields, only with far more kindness and grace.

And that, I think is the crux of what makes me so ill at ease, seeing this dark, twisted, mutilated version of the man I love and knowing that Peeta could have been like this… except that he is not.

I spend half my mornings bored and sitting in the parlor with Lady Mellark, pretending to be industrious at sewing. Afternoon tea with Lady Mellark and Peeta by my side where we trade veiled insults as much as we trade pleasantries. It feels like a constant war and after one particularly gruesome tea time, I mutter to Peeta that the infantry must have felt like a stay of execution after life here. Dinner with Lord Mellark, Ethan, and Lady Mellark if she feels up to it, then I am sent to my room like an errant child, banished from the evening, manly entertainments. 

It is a strange manner of entertaining guests, so unlike how we entertain at Everdeen. There, it is an entire event, all focused on ensuring the happy nature of our guests’ visit. Here, I feel as though guests are not welcome. A nuisance, and interruption of the importance of the family. When I am not expected to perform for our hosts, I spend my time wandering. I walk in the gardens or explore the vast halls. Peeta is able to join me on some days and instead of boring me with the history and importance of each room, he weaves a different sort of tale, just as he did our first night here. 

As he speaks, he paints such a picture that I can see it as though it is happening before me. Peeta and Robert as boys, enacting the stories William Thackeray gave to his son, a dowry of irreplaceable wealth for the life he was to lead here and then adding their own creations to the repertoire -- sword fighting with the suits of armor outside the dining room, launching expeditions into the cellars to slay dragons, befriending them instead and pretending their dragon companions accompanied them as protectors on all future expeditions.

“Phineas and Isabelle,” Peeta tells me. “They preferred to eat lemon custard and cherry tarts rather than boys and lambs.”

“They did, or their human companions did?” I ask with a smile and Peeta shrugs.

“The poor dragons were blamed for any number of pilfered desserts.”

The ballroom becomes a desert to be crossed and the gardens outside their wall of stained glass doors the oasis. A little used kitchen intended to prepare quick meals for the guests to consume in their rooms is turned into a sailing ship, each guest room a new island to be explored. Treasure buried under mattresses or wardrobes, disgruntled maids and guests when they discovered it. The grounds themselves presented limitless possibilities, too many for Peeta to cover while we are indoors but his words give me an inkling. All of the stories Peeta’s father brought to life in a warm kitchen on another estate in another time, used here as a shield against the dismal silence and suffocating expectations, a source of bonding for a pair of half brothers both in desperate need of someone to love them unconditionally, to care for them.

It sounds so lovely when he describes it, so much like my own childhood with Madge, hiding in corners of our own homes, venturing forth on the grounds. But here at de Vale, the lofty house almost demands more fantastical imaginings than she and I conjured, and Peeta provided. A thousand different worlds unleashed from his mind with Robert by his side, then locked away again when the Lord and Lady entered the room. I am glad that Peeta was able to find some shred of light, laughter, happiness, beauty, and love here.

On days when he cannot join me, I dress warm and wander on my own, all about the gardens, impressive even in their dormant winter state, through the humid greenhouses as I inhale the pungent scent of warm earth, digging my fingers into the soil to feel any sort of connection with my home, to remember who I am. Into forgotten rooms still kept pristine, where lessons were once taught and now silence reigns. An art studio with brushes awaiting an artist, blank canvases waiting on a pair of easels, paints in a neat line, the only proof of use the speckles of color on the floor beneath and on the lip of the easel itself. A library with shelves upon shelves of books on every subject imaginable. I read as much as possible, sitting upon a cushioned window seat and basking in the cool shafts of winter sun that dare to poke through the clouds. The place is silent most of the time, like a tomb or a palace lost in time. So very silent and somber, it drives me near mad, and I am grateful when Peeta is able to join me and fills the world with such beautiful imaginings.

“Because Ethan and Henry both refuse to live here with their children,” Peeta explains the silence now. There are no more children to fill the barren halls of de Vale with laughter and games.

Together, we find some hidden treasures that I cannot resist asking Peeta about. In a room that Peeta calls the Music Room, there are half a dozen instruments covered in canvas coverings, piles of untouched sheet music beside the piano bench, and a half covered painting. When I peel back the fabric draped over it, I gasp in shock. It depicts a stunning woman and her lover, caught in an amorous embrace, only a sheet wrapped about their hips to preserve a shred of modesty.

“That would be Aunt Chastity. Not my aunt, but Robert’s and the others as well. Lady Tabitha’s sister.”

“How does a lady named Chastity wander into such a ...salacious painting? In her sister’s home no less!”

“Chastity ran off to the continent to become an opera singer. She was rumored to be exceptional, though I’ve never heard her sing. Neither have any of my brothers. Eventually, she became a paramour to a French prince. She sent this painting of herself and her prince as a birthday gift for Lady Tabitha one year. The Marchioness wished to burn it, the Marquis refused. They fought terribly over it and the final solution was to hang it in the Music Room. None of us have taken up an instrument and Lady Tabitha has not played since years before I even came here, so it remains mostly unseen back here.”

I laugh for at least an hour over that story. Although I should feel some pity for Lady Mellark, I instead feel some affinity for the mysterious and daring Lady Chastity. We leave the painting uncovered when we depart the room.

Despite our shared moments of levity, I begin to dream of a fog, silent and lethal as it creeps towards me and chokes the breath from me. When that happens, Peeta is there to soothe me, his own sleep poor in a place full of unpleasant memories. We do what we can, holding one another, sneaking into the kitchens late at night to bake and to talk.

Perhaps it would be easier to manage if we were not separated so much during the days. Perhaps it would be easier if we could lose ourselves in physical love in the nights, but with each night that we remain here, passion and desire seem to drain from us a little more. The cold surroundings leech all warmth that dares to challenge the manor’s solemn hold, and that includes lust. This place steals it from us in small degrees until I feel it is near a miracle that we even embrace as we sleep.

It does not help that I am in constant war with my own body, as the violent swings in mood continue. I cycle between ill, irritable, and sad with alarming speed and no warning. The moments of feeling happiness or desire become shorter and infrequent, and it frightens me but I’ve no idea how to cure such a thing. I write to Mother about it yet know the answer will not reach me until we are in Capitol.

Every night, I lay close to my husband, resting my ear on his chest that I might feel and hear the steady thump of his heart, a soothing lullaby. His physical warmth and the steady strength of his arms about me serves as both a shield against the crippling cold of this place and as a reminder of the warmth, the heat that lives and breathes as part of his soul, even if it is forced into submission and retreat in this tomb of a house. I will not allow it to be extinguished. I cannot lose the man in the mask, my husband, my love, my Peeta.

Near the end of our stay, I ask Peeta to show me the family portrait gallery, that we might repeat our game from the masquerade. Most of them are as expected, grim and somber, an entire family full of its own importance. Peeta has very few stories to share about them, though.

“Ethan would be better able to give you the family history,” Peeta admits but then I find one he must know about and drag him before it. “Ah yes. The Marchioness delivers an heir.”

I tilt my head and examine the portrait of Lady Tabitha, smiling and benign, holding a chubby infant looking equally as tranquil. “The painter failed to capture the essence of her smile.”

Peeta shakes his head, clearly hiding laughter as we move to the next. Lady Tabitha again with yet another cherubic looking infant. “Henry?”

“Henry. And Ethan in the frame next to him at three years of age.” I smile at the painting of Ethan sitting and looking disgruntled with either his bonnet or the wooden toy horse in his meaty fists. “It became a tradition thereafter. First at birth, then every three years after, a new portrait of each of her sons. The math conveniently worked out as they were spread three years then six years apiece.”

I take another step and quickly peruse the next set. Ethan at six, standing and holding the reins to a squat horse, Henry as a toddler with a wooden sword and a vacant expression. Then onwards to Lady Tabitha with Robert on her lap as an infant. Nine year old Ethan in what appears to be a school uniform, six year old Henry sitting at a desk with quill and parchment. A pictorial timeline of the boys as they grow older by three year leaps with every few steps that I take.

My shoes scrape the marble as I halt and stare at a face out of the timeline, to be certain, I glance back at the ones I’ve only just viewed. Ethan at one and twenty, dashing and confident. Henry at eighteen, stoic and studious. Robert at twelve, charming and mischievous. Here now a fourth face in the grouping. I glance back at Peeta for an answer. 

“Robert refused to sit for his portrait the year he turned twelve...unless I sat for one as well. The Marchioness spent a full three days in isolation after the Marquis ordered it hung here.”

I turn back and tilt my head to examine Peeta at fourteen years old, his blonde curls haphazard. Blue eyes somber. There is, as always, no denying the brotherly similarities.

“So there are more portraits of you here?” An excitement fills me at the idea of seeing some part of Peeta’s growth through the years.

“It was one of Robert’s many small acts of rebellion, in addition to insisting on calling me his twin. Every three years, he demanded that I be painted in portrait and join them here as one of the brothers Mellark, ensuring that I was at least shown to be part of the family, if not always made to feel as such.”

“No wonder you would do so much for him,” I muse as I continue down the line of portraits.

While I note the maturation of each brother as we walk, it is Peeta’s face I seek with each new set. At seventeen, showing the signs of the man he would become, the full lips and chiseled jawline more prominent, his youth still evident in slightly rounded cheeks. And then...

“Oh,” I say as I stop once more in front of him, at the age of twenty this time.

“What is it?” 

I do not know how to account for the difference. It is still his face, the same collection of features though aged and mature — the devil may care styling of his curls, freckles dusting his nose, limpid blue eyes, the exact curve of cupid’s bow, his ears just right. Yet this portrait is entirely different, and not simply because he is all man in appearance. It is undeniably clear in his expression as well. The hint of a smile lurks about his lips and the expression in his eyes! 

Heaven and mercy! had I been in Capitol for Madge’s debut as had been planned the year this portrait was painted, and not at Everdeen dealing with a poor harvest year, had I met this expression across a ballroom, I fear that my heart would have been forfeit in an instant. Even now it patters madly at this almost  _ knowing _ and teasing and tempting expression. This gaze that taunts and whispers  _ Follow me to shadowed alcoves. Share your secrets. Lift your skirts a bit. The pleasure I can offer will be worth the danger of ruin. _

I am heated then chilled in rapid turns and cannot look away as my knees acquire all the rigidity of blackberry jam. Then words rise up from memory to provide an answer, an explanation for the change in him.

_ The stupid impetuousness of youth.  _

Of course. This portrait is of a young man who has recently discovered the thrill and satisfaction to be found in a woman’s body. The portrait of a man who has recently removed a corset and thus his boyhood.

“Who was she?” I ask.

“Who?”

“The woman you were thinking of when you sat for this.”

“What do you mean?” I turn to face him and clench my hands together, a sense of dread and foreboding filling me.

“Peeta… I am not stupid, nor am I so naive. I’ve seen you look at me with this expression. I know what it means. Who was she?”

“Ah,” Peeta makes a noise or two of discomfort.

“Who was she?” I repeat.

“Are you certain you wish to hear? I cannot take it back, Katniss. I cannot change the past.”

“No but I can use it to understand who you are now.” He hesitates and then turns me back to face the paintings. To face his captured visage as he discovered manhood and sexual prowess. I hate her. Whoever she is, I hate her, as illogical as it may be.

“Her father was on commission with the Marquis. He painted every portrait in this series,” he points back down the hall from whence we just came, “and she was his apprentice for nearly thirty years until his death, some time prior to my twentieth birthday. While the Marquis and Marchioness had reservations hiring a female painter when it came time for this set to be done, she challenged them to give her a chance. She painted Ethan first,” he moves me back down the line and points to the difference in skill, in the fidelity and shading, the techniques between the years before and this set. I must admit to myself that even Ethan at nine and twenty and Henry at six and twenty appear more like themselves, more  _ alive _ when captured with her brush than they did under her father’s. “The Marquis acknowledged her skills far surpassed her father’s. She has painted every portrait since.”

“And how did you wind up beneath her skirts?” I ask, unable to keep the bite of jealousy from my voice.

“We shared a commonality, low birth and an interest in art,” he says as we return to the portrait of him. “I began drawing as a child. Pigs and cats and things drawn with bits of rock and chalk, on the paving stones at Hilston House. Then parchment and charcoal when I continued to show a desire to draw. My mother… my mother taught me. She used to draw as well and my father would spend what he could spare on parchment and pencils for us. When I came here, Robert learned of the interest and asked the Marchioness to hire a painting master to teach him, and by that he meant to teach us, even though Robert had no interest in studying the arts.”

“Because she would have refused if she knew it was truly for you.” Another way in which Robert showed his affection for Peeta.

“Yes. She,” he points back at the portrait of himself, “was the art tutor. She was willing to speak with me at length about art and that led to discussing other topics. We became friends of a sort.”

“And that led to not talking and not being friends,” I mutter. “You had a torrid love affair with a painter who was twice your age.” Peeta does not answer, for there is no need to.

It burns, the knowledge that this expression of sublime flirtation and desire was aimed at some other woman than me. An older, far more experienced woman. I knew there had been someone before me, but seeing him thus, through her eyes, burns almost as badly as running through open flames. Because I have seen something like this expression myself, hovering over me in our bed, teasing me across drawing rooms when he knows my thoughts wander to the salacious and I can do nothing about it. I thought that look was mine and mine alone yet here it is in oil pigments, permanently captured and saved for someone else to remember his lips, his embrace, his body against hers.

I can see it so clearly. Peeta sitting in a chair, confidently flirting, slinging witty remarks and distracting a blushing beauty as she attempts to paint him, admonishing him to stop moving so she may finish and they might engage in other activities. His hands wandering up her skirts, eliciting soft moans and high pitched cries of pleasure. His mouth…learning the intricacies of a woman’s pleasure under her tutelage…bodies spread across that massive bed beneath the wide azure sky painted on his ceiling… I am on fire with rage and jealousy and the need to smash something and watch it burn too.

“Katniss, please,” he reaches for me. I feel the approach of his touch in the change in the air around me. My body responds and I shake my head, stepping out of his grasp. “You wanted to know.”

I did, and now that I have asked, a hundred more questions tumble about in my mind, several of them spill from my lips, forced out by the sheer overcrowding of my thoughts.

“Did she paint your mural? Your beautiful sky and meadows? Did she leave her permanent mark on your bedroom walls after you loved her in your bed? Did she stare up at that blue sky and think the color matched your eyes as she cried out your name in ecstasy? Is that why the Marchioness would not give the name of the artist? Because it belonged to your lover?” My voice is shockingly cold and calm, given the fires raging inside me.

“Had Lady Mellark known of the affaire, she would have given you every detail she knew of and several she would have made up, simply to cause a chasm between you and I.” He is undoubtedly correct and still I seethe. “Lady Mellark would not give you the name of the artist because  _ I _ painted that mural.” I stop moving away from him, stunned. “I started it when I was twenty, yes. But I had known  _ her _ ,” he gestures towards his own face, “several years before that. She may have given some guidance at the start, but she never saw the mural itself... because she never set foot in my chambers.”

I march down the hall, uncertain that I believe him and unseeing until I reach the frame that will show him at three and twenty. I spin on my heel, prepared for another assault of a happy, seductive Peeta and am instead met with ice. My fury is quenched in an instant.

There has always been an undeniable physical resemblance to the Marquis, but there was always something in his eyes and the way he holds his mouth, in his manner of expression, that belonged only to Peeta, that set him apart from his sire. But  _ this _ painting… in this painting, he truly and fully looks  _ exactly _ like his father. 

My jaw drops open as I stare at him, at the cold and foreboding glower of a man with no joy and no love in his life. Once again the change from the previous painting is astonishing and unnerving. Still dashingly handsome, nearly devastatingly so, but his eyes burn now not with the playful desire and flirtation of a young man engaged in a love affaire, but the cold reticence of a man who has seen far too much. He wears his uniform in this one and his face...his face is scarred. So then he had already spent time away at war. Had already saved Johanna’s life and was keeping her secret. Had killed a man, slaughtered him like a pig, perhaps more than one man.

“I came home on a medical furlough after they removed shrapnel from near my ribs. Just in time for Robert’s birthday.”

“And yours.”

“And mine… so we sat for our portraits and I could barely sit still. Nothing would hold my attention for long. I felt...out of sorts in all company. I was in pain and unsure if it was from healing wounds or something fractured in my soul. This place… had begun to feel more like I might belong before I had left, but when I came back, I was a stranger again.”

His words strike on memory. I burn as he speaks. Not with rage or jealousy but with memory. The sudden looks of pity, disgust, uncertainty. The carefully treading of well meaning people as they come to believe my worth, my place in the world, my chances for happiness, have been forever destroyed. How to treat a creature mutilated and damaged by flames, be they the flames of war or the flames of a fire. I burn with the cold radiating from his expression and know...I was right about us. We recognise and understand something in one another that few others can. The way scars on the soul burn deeper than scars on the skin. 

“As I attempted to hold pose and she attempted to cajole me into laughing for her... I couldn’t even smile. My body wouldn’t even allow a false one. That essentially describes my entire week at home before I returned to my regiment.” I nod mutely as I absorb the aura of the painting. 

“Did you and she…while you were at home that is...?”

“Yes. Once. We were not in my chamber. As I said before… She never saw that room at all, so to answer your other questions, all of them… No.”

I want to ask him where then, where did he lay her down and love her? Perhaps one of the guest rooms. Or did he make the effort to leave this place and seek her out elsewhere? Perhaps they conducted their affaire in dark corners of the manor here, frantic fumbling and the thrill of a rushed tumble in shadows, the potential of being caught in the very act an aphrodisiac of sorts. 

“What is this line of questioning truly about, Katniss? Do you truly wish for me to paint a sordid picture for you? Or is there something else prompting this?” He asks and runs a hand through his hair. 

“Have you thought of her when we are in bed together here?” Some of my fury leaves me as I voice the words and I realise it is because I thought he had touched her, loved her, seduced and been seduced by her in the sanctuary of his room, in his bed that we have now shared, yet has not known our love, as he has barely touched me in a carnal sense since being here. And my jealous mind now assumes it is not because this place discourages romance as I had thought, clearly that is not the case if he had an affaire right under the nose of his benefactors, but because he must be remembering her. 

“No. I’ve not given a single thought to her until this moment when you asked me who she was. Katniss… I love you. I married you. I have pledged my life to you. I would not change that for the world. And I have neither seen nor spoken to  _ her _ since the last time she painted my portrait. She was a piece of my past but she was only one part. You… you are everything to me. I am, in every way… yours.”

I nod and he seems to deflate a little, but I know it is in relief. Still, I have a few lingering curiosities and so I ask.

“Why did it end?” I ask softly and he takes my hands in his and lifts them to his lips, his eyes growing hazy and pained as he explains.

“She told me that there was something twisted and dark inside me. She wanted me to be who I was at twenty, but I was no longer that young man. You see the scars on my face in that portrait. You know what caused them. What I had seen and done. She knew none of it, only saw the effects and did not care for them. I returned to my regiment … and shortly after my leg was… and I realised she was right about me. There is something dark and twisted. You have seen it too. But I—“

I cover my mouth with my hand and close my eyes. Was he as wild with her during their last time together as he was that night with me? Did the savage and riotous force of his need to love and be loved frighten her? Did she recoil in horror from the brute? I can feel the damnable wetness leaking from my eyes down my cheeks. The schism inside him in these paintings, the change within his eyes alone is staggering and unbearable. But I know that this is only one piece of my husband. A portrait can capture only a moment, a brief instance, and one expression. There is far more to him than this one moment. Surely a painter would have known that? And that’s when I realise what a fool she was and accept that I’ve no reason to envy her. It falls away like the cloak of winter, shed to absorb the warmth and light of spring, of hope.

Just as I cannot sever my scars from my skin, from my soul, neither can Peeta. I already knew this when I wrote to him that I could handle the brute in the night and the gentleman in the sun. That I am strong enough for all of him. And that is when I understand. She held a piece of him for a short time. I hold all of him, from now until death parts us.

“Katniss.”

“I do not know why I am crying!” I say and Peeta brings me to his chest, holds me in his arms. He soothes me when it is I who should be soothing him. I cling to him and expel my tears onto his coat, and when he tilts my chin up and whispers my name, I cannot help kissing him. Kissing him even in the middle of the hall with sunlight slanting across the marbled tile and his face. I invite the brute and welcome the force of his kiss. I demand it. 

And when he finally releases me, I cannot help asking one more thing. “What was her name?”

He stares at me and finally answers, the syllables dull on his tongue. No remorse, no excitement, nor any longing. Simply stating a fact. “Ophelia.”

I nod and then compose myself, running my hands over the fabric of his coat, ironing out any wrinkles I may have caused in our moment of abandon. “I will be present at the sitting for your portrait come this spring or you’ll not be painted at all, husband.”

“Of course you will be present, if there is such a sitting. I would want you to be painted beside me.”

“Truly?”

“Truly, and I would not complain if we took some inspiration from Aunt Chastity for it.”

“Lecher!” I accuse, but I am suddenly laughing and smiling, as is Peeta when he gives me one more, chaste kiss. “Even if there is something dark and twisted inside you, you do not let it rule you. That makes you the man, not the monster.”

He smiles at me and caresses my cheek, such a loving gesture and I am struck with an idea. I tuck it away for later, another time when I am alone. For now, I take his hand in mine and lead him towards our room, shutting the door and uncaring if it is unseemly to do this in the middle of the day. We have never paid heed to that stupid rule of propriety anyways.

“We haven’t much time,” he whispers as we kiss and heat builds and builds inside me, pushing out the numb of the past few days.

“We have enough,” I whisper back as we lay across the bed and he lifts my skirts to my waist. I cling to his hair and relax into his touches and kisses, gaze up at the blue, blue sky above me. Then down at his eyes between my thighs as he watches me unfold. I gasp, keeping the sounds quiet as he loves me. I hold tight to it, so tight that I’ve no warning and no chance to prepare. My sex seizes all control as I am flung into rapture, my spine arched on the bed and his name a ragged cry that echoes off the ceiling back to my ears. My body convulsing in waves. I shudder and moan and then his lips are on mine, feeding me the taste of my own desire, my own pleasure, my own release.

I watch him struggle with his trousers, myself still drifting on a cloud of sublime release, and then he groans in frustration when there is a knock on the door.

“What is it now?” He growls and climbs off of me, yanking my skirts back down to cover me and leaving me feeling hollow, needing him to fill me, as he strides across the room and opens the door enough to speak to but not enough to reveal any of the room to the person on the other side.

“Lady Mellark reminds you of tea, sir,” comes the timid squeak of an answer.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The tension continues to build, even though I’ve gained more of an understanding of it and of Peeta as a result. There are more members of the household feeding it than just us. It is like a sleeping demon preparing to rise and wreak havoc on all the world. Despite the release of one form of tension, I am agitated and jumpy and Peeta is the same as tea is served. 

Steam curls from my cup in tranquil tendrils yet I know the violence that rages inside the kettle as it heats. I press my thighs together beneath my skirts, eager for this to be over that Peeta and I might find a quiet moment to continue where we were interrupted. I have had my release and still feel the pressure building inside me. He must be near to bursting.

Then, the stifling quiet build of tension is broken at last by the arrival of an unexpected visitor. Sir Robert. 

As he enters the parlor in the middle of tea, Lady Tabitha rises with a smile on her face. It is the first genuine such expression I have seen on her.

“Robert, my darling!” She says and practically falls on top of him. “Do you travel alone?”

I give Peeta a questioning look at her eager inquiry and he shakes his head, indicating that I should watch, observe, before I speak.

“Mother. Yes, I travel alone this time.”

“Oh I am so happy to see you! You have been away from home far too long, neglecting your poor mother. How long will you stay?”

“Not long. Only a night and then I must return to town.”

“No, Robert! So soon?” Lady Mellark laments.

“I am afraid so, Mother. I only came to collect a few things and to make my excuses for Christmas in person.”

“Not coming for Christmas?” Robert ignores his mother’s whining question and forges onward.

“And I have good news to share. Delly and I have secured lodgings of our own.”

“What?” Lady Mellark practically yells and Ethan once more coughs in his tea. Peeta asks if he takes pepper in it, peering into his brother’s cup, and while Ethan and Robert both laugh at this, Lady Mellark only seems befuddled.

“Of course not. Why would Ethan take pepper in his tea?”

“Katniss poured today,” Ethan answers through his tears and I give Lady Mellark my best look of innocence as she scowls and shakes her head, clearly deeming it not worth her inquiries as she turns back to Robert.

“But darling, you are always welcome here. You know that! What will I do without you?”

“I have quite decided on it, Mother. And you will be fine! You’ll finally have time to yourself as you’ve always wished for more. Besides that, Peeta was right. I cannot continue to be a burden on you and Father. I am a married man now and must stand on my own feet, care for my wife. My wife and I thank you, brother, for the assistance. I shall pay you back, as promised.” Lady Mellark whirls and glares at Peeta, opening her mouth and clearly prepared to launch into a tirade, but Ethan intervenes.

“Splendid! I shall bring the girls and Thomas by sometime soon! Where will you be staying?”

“Hartford Road,” Robert says and Lady Mellark sputters some more. 

“But that is...you  _ cannot _ !”

“I cannot live in the Merchant Quarter? But whyever not? My wife is a cobbler. It is an excellent location for her to build her trade. And I am to be a barrister -- oh! That is the other bit of news I had for you. I have--” he claps his hands together gleefully “-- at long last decided to make use of that fine education you and Father provided for me with a profession of my own!”

“Drinks are in order!” Ethan declares and hurries across the room to a sidebar as Lady Mellark flounders, her face growing redder by the second. “Happy news for all the family!”

The brothers move to distribute glasses and see Lady Mellark seated before she swoons. I get the distinct impression that this is a carefully orchestrated, well practiced routine for them. 

“What news for you, Ethan?”

“Sarah wrote that she is much better. The doctor believes it a bad reaction to clams. So the solution is simple! No more eating clams! I detest the things anyways. Slimy little buggers.”

“Henry and Angelica?” Peeta asks now.

“Emma has surpassed Mr. Bowland’s skills by far in her studies of Greek, Latin, and Hungarian. They are making plans to travel to the continent next summer to immerse her in the cultures and languages as well as to hire more skilled tutors,” Ethan reports. Toasts are made to Emma’s brilliance and likely future as a scholar. Lady Mellark grips the cushions beneath her. She takes deep breaths, the sounds whistling through her teeth.

“That leaves you, Peeta,” Robert says with a grin and Ethan once more delivers the news, gesturing towards me.

“Expectant father!”

“Congratulations, brother!” Robert shouts and smacks Peeta heartily on the back.

Lady Mellark screeches then and Robert thrusts a glass in her hands. “Oh Mother, forgive my rudeness. Your sherry.”

She gulps it down and then stands, storming from the room and throwing the glass as she goes. It shatters against one of the paintings on the wall. A door slams down the hallway and all three brothers drink calmly, as though nothing had happened.

“Is that painting difficult to repair?” Robert asks.

“Probably,” Peeta mutters and Ethan shrugs.

“I am certain Miss Ophelia will be glad of the work.”

Their nonchalance in the face of such hysteria is troublesome. For one moment, I feel sorry for Tabitha Mellark. I stand slowly and clear my throat. “Do none of you feel guilty for antagonizing her to cause that scene?”

“Oh trust us, it would have happened sooner or later,” Robert says with a heavy sigh. “Best to get it over with fast. The longer it takes, the messier the resulting fit.”

As if hearing this, there’s shouting down the hall and the sudden sounds of more smashing glass. “AND SEND FOR THE DOCTOR! I cannot breathe! And my heart! Oh! You have broken me this time! Are you happy for breaking your poor mother’s heart?”

I watch as Robert mouths her entire diatribe nearly word for word until the last, which makes him visibly wince.

“... _ UNGRATEFUL WRETCH! _ ”

A harried looking maid practically runs past the door to the parlor as the one down the hall once more slams shut.

“Oh good. An immediate call for Doctor Hassel. Usually she waits for at least an hour before she does that,” Robert says.

“You did tell Mrs. Hastings that you were here with announcements, to give the staff a warning, yes?” Ethan asks.

“Of course! I am not a complete ass,” Robert says. Then smiles at me. “Most of the time. I’ve made rather a habit of it lately but I am trying to turn it around.” 

An apology. Having learned all that I have of their life here and of more of his relationship with Peeta, I am inclined to accept it.

“That poor maid,” I say with a shake of my head.

“Who was it this time?”

“Noelle,” Peeta answers and Ethan nods.

“I’ll see she’s compensated, as usual. If Henry were here, he could tell us just how fast we managed it this time. It seemed rather swift, did it not?” Ethan says, returning to their previous line of talking.

“Robert usually isn’t the cause. I think she was unprepared for that,” Peeta points out and Ethan laughs, punching Robert on the shoulder.

“At long last, the favoured brother falls.”

Robert heaves a sigh, the sound oddly relieved. “It was still Peeta that sent her over the edge, getting his wife pregnant. For shame, man!”

“I am happy as always to fulfill my family role,” Peeta says and I sit back down, strained laughter spilling from my lips.

“Are you alright, Katniss?” Robert asks me then and I shake my head.

“I think I have been here far too long.”

“Cheers to that,” Ethan says and lifts his glass to me with a wry smile.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

That night, we spend an hour of talk in our bed. Peeta caresses over my back and my shoulders as I whisper in the dark, spilling more of my own secrets, the days following the fire and how it affected all my hopes for the future. He listens as I tell him of the young man who had been writing poetry to me, perhaps the early stages of courtship and how his desire turned cold after the fire. The knowledge of my scars a deterrent to love.

After, when I’ve run out of words and my throat aches, Peeta kisses me softly, across my cheek and down to my scars. “He was a fool. You are exquisite in every way.”

Peeta sleeps soundly that night, yet I cannot. Excitement courses through me with each beat of my heart. Tomorrow we leave. Tomorrow we head to Capitol and if all goes as planned, in a few days we will be bound for Everdeen with one addition to our family.

I trace the dark circles under my husband’s eyes as he sleeps. Kiss each one and then his lips before I slide from our bed and slip into my slippers and dressing robe. I find a taper and light it, silently leaving him to sleep as I seek out the room I need. 

The cold is biting tonight as I hurry on silent feet through the strange halls. I imagine the ghosts pointing the way, helpful spectres who only desire to be left in peace to rest. When I finally reach it, I inhale the lingering scents of paint and turpentine. 

At first, I plot a thousand kisses to overshadow his memories in this room, a thousand ways to make this ours when we are next forced to visit here, and when I spot a divan I had not noticed on my previous visit, I have one lurid thought before it careens out of control and instead of dreaming of Peeta touching me, I am picturing him holding paint stained skirts out of the way and thrusting between creamy unmarked thighs wrapped about his hips, glossy hair spilling over the divan and fingers spotted with bright oil paints gripping his buttocks.

I shake my head and turn away from the divan. Perhaps they did conduct their affaire here. It would be a likely location for such a thing. And perhaps Peeta is right. He cannot change it, and I cannot erase it. This room, that affaire is a thing of the past. I have only struggled with it so because I have been faced with the proof of it, whereas before coming here, I had only a vague knowledge of it. Now the lover has a name and a story. 

Ophelia.

I run my hands over the soft bristles and note characteristics of the brushes that Peeta would have used. Christmas approaches and his birthday is in a few months, and now I know precisely what to get for him for both, another piece of him to welcome to Everdeen and bring home with us. 

Satisfied that I have gleaned all that I can from the history in this room, I leave and return to bed, sliding with ease into Peeta’s arms. He wraps me in his embrace and murmurs in his sleep.

“Katniss, my love.”

And with that, I am at last able to find rest as well.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Lady Mellark remained closeted the rest of the day after her fit at tea and into the morning. Her throwing the wine glass is the last I see of her. Lord Mellark delays our departure in the morning by summoning Peeta after breakfast and keeping him far too long. I pace the marbled hall, dressed for travel and ready to leave. 

Robert has already departed an hour ago, calling me “sister” with an odd sort of affection and soliciting a promise that Peeta and I would see him and Delly in town. Ethan too, has long since left, rising with the sun and departing before the rest of the house had even stirred, leaving only a note reminding Peeta that we are welcome at Medora any time we wish. Even Jefferies and his wife Susanna have left in a hired carriage, a trunk filled with Peeta’s things as well as their own belongings in their care, a letter in my hand addressed to Father explaining who they are and how they are to be employed at Everdeen.

Our own bags are packed and the horses hitched. Frederick sits on the box with reigns in hand. I await only my husband. At long last, he hurries up to me, grasping my arm and fairly charging out the door.

“Do not look back. Just leave,” Peeta mutters. He moves rather swiftly, given the wooden leg. He steers me down the stairs and into the carriage, following right behind with four words of instruction. “Capitol, with haste Frederick.”

“With pleasure, sir.”

I am still settling in as the coach lurches into motion and I fall backwards, right into Peeta’s lap. His arms surge around me and he holds me tight. He inhales and releases it, a shuddering and desperate sound. “God I couldn’t bear another second of it. It’s harder to bear, knowing life need not be like that at all.”

“Peeta...I cannot breathe.”

“Apologies,” he says and loosens his hold enough to help me onto the seat. “I hope you did not forget anything. If you did, I fear it is now lost. I will not go back there for all the riches in the world.”

“What happened?”

“They were bickering and making it impossible for me to cross a room without risking something being thrown at my head.” I gasp and push his hat off his head to examine him for injuries, he chuckles and takes my hand in his, bringing it to his lips in what has become a familiar and comforting gesture between us. “No injuries, my love. Only a desperate need to get as far away as possible as quickly as possible for as long as possible.”

“For me as well, husband,” I murmur and settle in, comfortable against his shoulder and chest. “What were they arguing over?”

“Me, or rather what we did.”

“Oh?”

“They did not take the news well that I had hired myself a valet and a seamstress for my wife.”

I glance up at him and he smiles at me. I return the expression and kiss his jaw, happy that Jefferies and his wife will no longer suffer. I am too afraid to ask what the other thing is that Peeta suspected was happening to the couple, what other payment the Marquis had extracted for Jefferies protecting Robert. I fear Susanna paid the steeper price for her husband’s loyalty to Robert.

We ride in silence for a time, watching the snow dance outside the carriage. It is already nearly midday and we still have a fair distance to travel.

“We might need to stop at an inn on the edges of town,” Peeta says and I nod. “We’ll send word ahead to Haymitch when we stop.”

“Peeta,” I say, attempting to order my words and waiting for him to make a sound of encouragement for me to continue. “How is it that none of you wound up anything like the Marquis? Or the Marchioness?”

“Well...for Ethan I think it was school. He spent most of his life away at boarding schools. The best ones, only the best for Ethan. He stayed away for so long that by the time he returned home to learn the particulars of the title and estates he was to inherit, he was already his own man. Henry...no one paid any mind to Henry. They did not know how to handle his thirst for knowledge and his constant questioning of everything. They left him to his books instead, hired tutors and left him in their charge. He found mentors and guidance elsewhere, through his academic studies and letters he sent to scholars, anyone who would correspond with him. Then he too went away to university and met Angelica. Robert spent more time in the care of the Marchioness than the others did. In many ways, he is most like them out of us all. In others he is nothing like them. Since he was the third son, the Marquis had no interest in parenting Robert other than using him as a source of pride. He was content to leave the youngest in his wife’s hands.”

“Until you came along.”

“Until I came along. Then Robert spent a great deal more time with me than anyone else in the household since we shared tutors and school lessons, went off to school together for several years.”

“I suppose that is why she favours him and despises you.”

“Likely, among other things. Robert grew closer to me and grew away from her. She has accused me more than once of poisoning both Robert and the Marquis against her, which is laughable. I am not her son in any form. She has no reason to care for me at all, and she has never once called me anything other than ‘ _ you _ ’ or ‘ _ that boy _ .’ I only serve as a constant reminder of her husband’s indiscretions and his disregard for her wishes. I am not the only bastard he has fathered. I am not even the only acknowledged one, but I am the only one she was forced to even converse with.”

“I almost felt sorry for her. Up until she insulted me for the thousandth time and threw a glass across the room. It is not as though she could control her husband’s actions, but she can control how she treats everyone around her. Look at Madge. She was married to a tyrant and managed to maintain the kindness of her soul. As did you,” I say. I yawn then and snuggle closer to my husband.

“Are you suggesting that I married a tyrant?” He asks, and I smile inside at the teasing note in his voice yet I turn a scowl to him.

“Not as long as you packed some of those rolls with the cheese on them.”

“They are under your seat.” 

I gasp in delight and he chuckles. As I search for them, I find something that I packed as well and present it to him.

“Why did you bring this?”

“For the cold days to come. You mentioned that the cold affects your leg.” He smiles at me and I can see the lifting of the dark clouds from his eyes as he accepts the cane and sets it next to his seat. Then he grasps my arms and hauls me into his lap.

“You are too good to me,” Peeta whispers and nuzzles my nose.

“It is what you and I do, husband. Take care of one another.” He kisses me then, my entire body awakening as we drive away from the tomb that is de Vale. It is as though spring has arrived early. Warmth blooming in my chest and birdsong fluttering in my head.

From there it is far easier to speak and enjoy the ride, wrapped up in his arms and cosied together, and yes, kissing here and there.

Only as we continue, it becomes clear that this journey is taking far longer than expected. The roads and ice necessitate a slower pace. We stop for a late midday meal that will likely double as dinner. We send word with a rider ahead to Haymitch. Frederick lights the lanterns to dispel the darkness. Peeta wraps me in warm blankets and fur, and I allow him to pamper me. Then we continue on. I am drowsy and begin to nod off as the sun sinks from the sky.

The sounds of horse and carriage remain as I dream, swaying and floating in a strange sort of way. My feet grow cold as I walk through frosted woods. Flashes light the trees and I cannot place them as I follow faint tracks in the frost painted ground. I catch the scents of cinnamon and dill, vetiver. There’s a brush of a hand on my cheek and I attempt to capture the hand, to hold Peeta close to me. His fingers slip through my grasp.

A loud crack of thunder startles me. My eyes fly open to the screaming of horses, a sound of collision I cannot place, the lurch forward as the horses break into a mad gallop, the precarious swaying of the carriage as it dashes through the night. The lanterns outside follow the movement, a macabre dance of flames through the glass. Peeta attempts to move me and I am sluggish to respond. Then the carriage leans to the side too far and Peeta shouts something, grabs my shoulders and turns me away. We are suspended for one moment then I land on my back atop him.

Glass shatters and wood splinters. My head strikes something. The already dark world turns hazy and spins before my eyes, then everything turns black. Black as death.


	26. Chapter 26

I fade in and out of true consciousness. The moon grows distant then surges back towards me. A strange ringing fills my head and I turn it to one side then the other to combat the noise. Fighting my eyes to stay open it seems, to grasp hold of my awareness of events as they transpire. I cannot seem to move, and so I am moved. Strong hands shift me and gently lay me down as a voice shouts from a great distance.

“Out of the carriage! I can hear you and know you’re not dead! All of your valuables! I will shoot if I need to!”

“Yes! Don’t shoot!” Peeta shouts back as his fingers touch me in delicate places. My mind grasps that he is checking me for injuries. How foolish. I landed atop him. He cushioned the blows for me. I should be checking him for injuries. 

For one brief moment, his eyes sway above me, streaks of blue, a deep well of concern focused at some point over my eyes. I feel his touch on my head, gentle as a moth. I feel pressure as he moves my hand to my head. He blinks and turns from me then. “I’ve been injured but am coming!”

_ No, do not go _ , I want to protest, but my mouth feels as though it is stuffed with fabric. My throat burns and even as I work my jaw, no sound issues forth. Peeta whispers to me, his hand spread wide and warm over my belly. “Katniss. Stay here. Stay silent. I love you.”

His fingers curl slightly, pressing into me as his lips caress over mine.  _ The babe!  _ Ice cold terror fills me. Oh God, let my child be unharmed, I plead and pray as Peeta moves away from me and I frantically reach for him, but just as in my dream, I cannot keep hold of him, nor of the clouded images around me. They fade and the sounds echo again.

“Everyone out!”

“It is only me,” Peeta says, opening the carriage door above us. A triangle of glass still clings to one of the window frames. I watch the moonlight bend and twinkle along its sharp edge. That is not right. That is not where the window belongs. My mind struggles to place what is happening, what is so wrong with the orientation of the world about me. My head spins.

“I’ll kill you and the lot if you’re lying.”

Peeta does not answer this but makes a show of hoisting himself through the door then getting stuck in it, finally working free. Without a glance back at me, he disappears from my sight.

_ No! _ I wish to shout. Tears add to the cloudiness hindering my vision. No! He cannot leave me!

The world returns to focus by slow degrees. I grit my teeth and will it to stabilize. To bend to my dictates.

“Stand here and deliver!”

“A moment, please.” Peeta’s boots and movements scrape across the side of the carriage above me. I force my limbs to move, hold my hand over my head and stare at the stained handkerchief in my grasp. I’ve no time to make sense of the stain and fling the cloth aside. I manage to get my hands beneath me and wince as glass protrudes through my gloves to my palms. Crunches beneath Peeta’s uneven gait outside.

“What’s wrong with your leg?”

“I told you I was injured.”

“Never mind! That’s far enough! All your coin! Throw it to me.”

I sit and listen to the faint sounds of Peeta handing over whatever currency he carries. No I need to stand. I cannot just sit here silently. I bend my legs to stand, grateful that nothing appears to be broken. I do not feel as though I have lost the babe, but again have no time to be certain. I can worry about that later.

“What is that? On your hand!”

“My wedding ring,” Peeta says. 

“Hand it over or make her a widow.” 

“You cannot make a dead woman a widow.” 

His words give me pause. What can he mean? I am not dead! There’s a dark chuckle as Peeta must hand over his ring. 

“And the timepiece. What are your cufflinks made of?”

“Take them.”

The world sways dangerously and I cover my mouth to hold back the rising sick in my throat. I will be of no use to anyone and likely be shot if I retch and reveal myself now.

“Good. Now kneel. Facing that way.”

“I cannot kneel,” Peeta says.

“You’ll kneel or I will shoot you in the head!” 

The sound of a blow reaches me and Peeta’s distressed grunt. My fingers search for something, anything that could be used as a weapon and find the cane I brought from de Vale, for those days when Peeta’s leg bothers him.

“Looks like you can kneel, mate.”

My fingers close around it. My feet finally decide to work and I’m able to grasp hold of the open door ledge above my head, pull myself through. The cold night air steals my breath and clears the fog.

Peeta kneels on one knee, his left leg extended and twisted at an odd angle. One hand on the ground as he stares at the highwayman’s boots, the other supporting his false leg. As though the brigand struck him and forced him to kneel before him. He aims a pistol at the top of Peeta’s head.

As I move, the cane thumps against the side of the carriage. A last section of glass falls from the windows and shatters, the noise drawing attention to me.

“Oi! What’s this?”

Peeta springs up, tackles the man. The pistol flies from the highwayman's hands, flung on the ground towards me. A flash of silver in the night and a yell as they grapple. I drop the cane and scramble from the carriage. Throw myself towards the discarded weapon. A shot goes off, startling me. Splinters of wood float through the air for a moment. As I look up, Peeta smashes the man’s arm into the ground, a second pistol released from the man’s grasp. 

They continue to fight as I stand with the firearm in my hands and examine it, pull back the flintlock and aim.

“Well well, what have we here,” the highwayman snarls. He’s gained the advantage, standing now and holding Peeta around the neck, a knife glinting in his grasp. Peeta’s hands are wedged between the brigand’s arm and his throat, barely keeping the knife from piercing his skin, my husband's body a shield between the thief and my shot. Peeta’s leg twisted unnaturally.

I do not understand. Peeta had the upper hand a second ago.

“She’s a spitfire, is’n she? Your wife? She looks mighty alive to me.” His voice carries a lecherous, disgusting tone. I cannot see his face as it is hidden behind a thick black scarf, obscured in the shadows of night. I barely suppress a shudder. “Pretty too. Can’t say’s I blame you for lying, mate. Bet she’s a real good fuck, is’n she?”

Peeta’s response is garbled as he struggles against the hold and fixes his eyes on me. In the moonlight, I can just make out the words he mouths, urging me to shoot.

I cannot. I might miss. I have only one shot. I might hit Peeta instead. My heart pounds. The man laughs at me, as though calculating our odds and deciding that he is already the victor. Peeta’s feet slide on the icy ground and he slips in the thief's grasp.

“Release my husband now or die.”

The man only shakes his head. “Such spirit. I’ll have my fun with you in a moment, dove.”

Peeta’s leg buckles, pulling them both forward a step. An opening. My finger pulls. A flash. A  _ bang _ !

My hand shakes in the smoke as I hear scuffling and the sickening sound of a knife buried in flesh. Once, twice, again.

“Katniss!” Peeta calls for me. I hurry to him as he attempts to stand, his balance off and his movements revealing he is in pain.

“You’re hurt!”

“Not badly. Bruises. I need to fix my leg as it is twisted. I am more concerned with you.” He tilts my head and I bat his hands away.

“I am fine. Is he dead?”

“He is. Katniss, would you cease...don’t look.”

I stare at the corpse on the ground. The dark socket that was his eye. The knife protruding from his gut. Peeta must have slipped away enough to stab him after I shot him. I recognize the handle of the blade. “That is your knife.”

“Yes.” Peeta releases me and pulls it free, wipes the blade clean on the man’s coat before sheathing it wherever he keeps it. I do not even know. How many times have I undressed my husband and I’ve never found his knife. Where could he possibly keep it? For some reason, it is this detail, this reminder that he carries it always and yet I am not privy as to how he keeps it concealed that breaks me. 

“What the hell were you thinking?” I shout and Peeta glares at me. “Confronting a man with two pistols when all you had was a knife!”

“I was thinking to protect my pregnant wife! What the hell were you thinking? Climbing injured and unarmed out of that carriage? Throwing yourself on his mercy!”

“To protect my insufferably noble, daft husband! You cannot leave me like that! We are expecting a child!”

“I am well aware!”

“A child who needs their father alive!” I scream and slam both fists into his chest. “And I was not unarmed! I had your cane!”

“Oh yes that is a perfect weapon against a pistol! What were you going to do? Smack the bullets from the air? Limp between them?”

“Were you planning to slice them with your knife? What was I to do after he shot you?”

“Take my knife and walk to the nearest inn after he’d left! You would have been fine without me so long as the thief were gone!”

“Bastard! I would not!” 

“Katniss, I had the situation in hand. You do me no favors by throwing yourself into danger and dying for me on the side of the road!” he growls and it strikes me then just how close I came to losing him. 

“We are supposed to face our challenges together, husband! You cannot run into danger like that without me!”

“I assure you, I can. I will not sit by and watch you murdered!”

His words break me further, for had I obeyed him, he would be dead now. I would have listened to his murder and not done a thing to save him. 

“Neither will I!” I fling myself into his arms and sob against his throat, pressing my forehead to his neck and trapping my hand between our chests that I might feel his pulse in two places at once. It thunders through him with a force and speed that rivals my own.

Peeta’s arms wrap around me and we cling to one another. We stand there in the moonlight, feeling one another -- breaths and heartbeats -- assuring ourselves that the other lives. My arms twine about him, beneath the heavy folds of his great coat that I might absorb his warmth. The heat trapped beneath the garment eagerly sinks into my skin, heats my shaking, frigid hands and soothes me, reassures me that he is very much still alive.

We cannot remain like this, however. There is still danger. As we move apart, I caress his cheek. That’s when I see the blood beneath his jaw.

“Your neck! You are bleeding!”

“No, ‘tis not mine,” he says and yanks at his cravat, tearing it free and then wrapping it around my head. I attempt to stop him but he’s insistent. Instead I move aside the rest of his collar and shirt, seeking the wound. There’s nothing. “You struck your head in the carriage, Katniss.”

I lift my hand and touch an area that throbbed moments ago, the pain lost in the fight and now roaring back to life. The stained handkerchief now makes sense. I wince and murmur that I have something to help in my healing kit.

“And we need to find Frederick.”

I am in a daze as Peeta collects his money and his wedding ring. We retrieve the pistols, search the man for extra shot. That is when I see it. A silver badge pinned inside on the man’s coat. I point at it with a shaky finger.

“That’s...that is your regiment. Did you know him?”

“I did not recognise his voice and have not seen enough of his face to know, but as we fought, I saw that insignia and... That is why…”

“Why you hesitated, and lost the advantage.”

“It is that and…” He cannot seem to finish and I watch as he stares down at the man, his jaw clenching as he works through some emotion I cannot name. Then something occurs to me and I place my hand on his sleeve.

“Perhaps he stole it.”

“Perhaps. More likely he did not. It was a large company, and I did not know every last soldier. He could have served during different years than I. Odds are greater that we both were in the same regiment than that he somehow found two of us to rob.” He bends and reaches for the scarf still covering the man’s face, save for the eyes. I set my hand on Peeta’s wrist to stop him.

“Peeta, do not do this,” I murmur. “It will do you no good.”

“I know that. I do. I…” He retracts his hand, turns his head to face me and I watch the fight in his eyes, a desperate battle. “Katniss, I am so sorry. I put you in danger, and our child. Are you truly alright? We need to get you to a doctor to examine you.” 

“I am fine. My head appears to be the only injury, thanks to your quick thinking. Frederick,” I say because if I think about it a second longer, I will cry again and we will never get out of this night. Peeta nods, though I can see that he still feels guilty for losing his focus, for endangering me and our child, and also for killing this man. I find the cane and hand it to him. Against his protests, I scurry into the carriage and find the healing kit, checking first to make sure the vials are still secure. Only one has broken, and I catch the smell of castor oil. Easy enough to replace, and likely not needed tonight. I heave the case through the window then follow it. Peeta has adjusted his leg by the time I emerge and grabs the reins of the highwayman’s horse. We each carry a loaded pistol and thus armed, we traverse back up the road until we find the form of our coachman on the ground.

“Halt there!”

“It is us, Frederick,” I call out and he lowers his own pistol.

“God be praised.”

“Are you injured?”

“I think my leg might be broken, Ma’am. And he shot me. In the shoulder. I should have--” I cut off his protests as I kneel next to him and examine the wounds.

“You need not apologise. That man is responsible for this, not you.” He nods and whispers a thanks for us returning for him. Peeta and I work together, fashioning a splint for the broken leg, packing the wound in the shoulder with yarrow to staunch the bleeding and bandaging it swiftly. Then Peeta hefts Frederick up onto the horse and leads it back towards the carriage.

“You should ride, Mrs. Mellark,” Frederick protests and I shake my head.

“Indeed not. I have two sound legs.”

The night is cold and I’ve no idea how far it is to the next inn. Still, what choice have we? We walk until my feet turn numb and Peeta’s limp grows so pronounced he leaves divots in the frost bitten ground with his cane. And still we continue. Frederick falls asleep in the saddle. Eventually, the warm glow of an inn greets us.

We must be a sight approaching the stable lad. He gapes at us as Peeta asks for the proprietor and a doctor, post haste. I am in a daze again, my head throbbing as Peeta sees to our needs. Frederick settled in a room with a doctor on the way. I sit beside the coachman and attempt to not dwell on how close I came to losing my husband tonight. I sort herbs and medicines that may be needed and focus on that while we wait for the doctor. I do what little I can for Frederick.

“I will return,” Peeta says and I surge out of my chair.

“You will not leave.”

“Stay here with Frederick. The doctor should be here soon to see to both of you. The proprietor has offered his sons to return to the carriage with me to retrieve our things and see if the horses might be found. They broke loose at some point and might still be recovered.”

“You will not leave me,” I repeat and grasp hold of his lapels. He caresses my face and smiles softly at me.

“I will not be gone long. You have one pistol. I will have my knife and the other pistol, and I do not go alone.”

“I will go with you.”

“You need to stay here. Your head,” he says, his eyes flicking up to where his cravat still serves as a bandage.

“Then you will have to tie me to the chair and even then I will drag it with me the entire way,” I snarl. His eyes fill with fiery determination and his jaw clenches for a moment before he speaks.

“I will not have you and our child in danger again tonight. Sit down, wife.” 

He grasps hold of my wrists and twists. My fingers release his coat without my permission. I gasp and find myself seated on the end of the bed, watching Peeta leave me. I could of course follow him, but his words about our child give me pause. Long enough that the doctor arrives, escorted into our rooms by the innkeeper.

“Thank you for coming so swiftly, Doctor,” Peeta says to the man. “My wife is with child and our coachman has broken a leg as well as been shot. I entrust them to your hands, Dr. Samson, and give you leave to dose Mrs. Mellark with laudanum should she turn hysterical.”

“Bastard!” I shout and the innkeeper seems perturbed by my outburst. Peeta unaffected as he bids the man farewell.

“Mr. Cleaver, your sons and I shall return soon.”

The doctor moves towards Frederick and the innkeeper stands sentry at the door, his arms crossed, eyes leveled on me. He is at least a head taller than Peeta and broader of chest. A veritable giant. His expression says he will not be cajoled or convinced to let me pass.

Trapped!

“You will return in one piece or I will kill you myself, husband!” I shout at Peeta.

He pauses in the doorway and chuckles. “If I search for my left leg to return to you in one piece, I will be gone far too long my love, for it was lost a great distance away from here.”

“Fine then. Leave it afield. I have no attachment to it anyways. But the rest of you must return whole.”

“As you command, my love,” he says before leaving me with a giant separating us, a pistol to protect myself, and an injured coachman. I fume and huff. Frederick coughs in discomfort and I stand, pace the room as the doctor tends to his wounds.

When Frederick has been cared for, the Doctor turns his attentions to me. He informs me I have concussed my head and gives instruction. “Sleeping tonight may not be wise.”

“I doubt I shall sleep at all,” I say, my eyes fixed on the door, waiting for Peeta to return. “The baby?”

“You’ve no signs of a miscarriage.” 

“Thank the Lord,” I murmur and he nods. He details symptoms I should be leery of, in case the loss of the babe is delayed.

Before he goes, the doctor murmurs something about my having quite the fright and possessing a robust constitution, as I am not in hysterics at all, as Peeta suggested I might. I hold my tongue and allow him his foolish notions on feminine bravery. For I know the real reason for Peeta’s comment on my mental stability. It was not for the doctor to hear, but for me. A warning to not follow him as I had threatened. Bastard indeed.

Once he leaves with the innkeeper, the innkeeper’s wife, a stout woman named Rooba, brings us a hearty meal. Frederick thanks her and dives right in. I, however have no appetite. I consume nothing but worry and the minutes that pass. Eventually, Frederick falls asleep and still I wait.

Finally, uneven footsteps sound in the hall. I grasp the pistol and have it cocked and ready when there is a soft knock on the door.

“Katniss.” I unlock the door and fling it open. Glancing over my husband once to assure myself of his health. He sets Frederick’s small satchel on the table by the door.

“Never do that again, husband.”

“Never what? Keep you safe?”

“Leave me. Threaten to have me drugged so that I may not follow! Risk your neck so needlessly!”

“I think we’ve different ideas of needless. Unless you would prefer I leave your underpinnings to be pilfered.”

“I care naught for undergarments, husband. And I thought we had established that you,” I smack my fist on his chest and he does not budge. “Are no good to me.” Another blow that has no effect. “As a corpse!”

“My dear, you will wake poor Frederick with your shouting.”

“Poor Frederick?” I gasp and Peeta grumbles, taking me by the arm, snatching up my healing kit with the other hand and seeing the door locked before dragging me to the room next door and thrusting me inside. Our trunks sit at the foot of the bed and food waits by the fire. 

“Now you may shout at me until the neighbors complain,” Peeta says, his hands grip my arms to the point of pain. “But it will do you no good. Have you any idea what it did to me, watching him point his pistol at you as you were climbing from that carriage? Hearing his plans for you? Do you know what he would have done to you? I told you to stay there! Where you were safe!”

“I imagine it was not nearly as bad as watching him aim straight at your thick skull! You would be dead now had I stayed in the carriage!”

“You think I was going to simply sit there and let him shoot me? I had no plans to go down without a fight!” I stagger away from him at this, unable to form words. “I am not completely useless, despite my crippled leg. He had not cocked the flintlock.”

I look away from Peeta’s blue fire eyes and stare at the crackling yellow flames in the hearth for a moment. I close my eyes and shake my head as I see it. The pistol on the ground, in my hands. I can hear the echoes of the flintlock as I pulled it.

“You were waiting for him to be distracted by it,” I whisper. “And instead it was my climbing from the carriage that distracted him.”

“Katniss, please understand. I was only trying to protect you. You have so many who love you, rely on you. Your family needs you. And I...if you died and I lived, if he had… touched you… I could never forgive myself. I could never be happy again. You are my whole world.” His fingers caress over my face, so soft and gentle.

“What about you?”

“No one needs me. You have seen that for yourself.”

“You are wrong,” I say and lift my chin to look into his eyes again. “Our child will need you. Miranda needs you. Maysilee, my father…Robert still needs you, and so many others have come to depend on you. Johanna, Madge, even Prim. Would you leave them all needlessly to grieve?”

Peeta flinches and I step forward to hold his cheek in my palm, to trace my thumb over his lips. He shakes his head and whispers a weak argument. “They would be fine, Katniss. They would have you.”

“Yes, but you forget one crucial fact, husband… I need you. So you will have to forgive me for attempting to protect you as well.”

He opens his mouth to protest and I silence his lips with mine. I slide my hand into his hair and hold tight, so that he may not retreat. I pour every ounce of fear and love I have felt tonight into this kiss, and it is not long before Peeta capitulates further speech.

I taste salt. His tears or mine, I cannot be sure. Either way, his kiss breathes life back into my hollow frame. His hands splay on my back, pulling my body roughly up against him. I moan into his mouth, against his tongue as it caresses mine then demands more, deepens the kiss until I am dizzy. 

Such heat, such claiming of life and need. It unfurls from my chest and fills me, to the very tips of my being. My knees buckle and I sag against him, his strong arms the only thing keeping me from falling to the floor. He lifts his head and I whimper. 

He does not let me go. Holding tight to me. I once again hide my face in his neck, breathing in the comforting scent of him. Worry and night wind, horse and sweat, relief and vetiver. I kiss along the ridge of his jaw. Feathering touches to keep us together as long as possible. Eventually, my body betrays my anxiety with a loud protest that brings a smile to Peeta’s face.

“Have you not eaten?” he whispers.

“Not yet. I waited for you,” I murmur and he nods, leads me to the chair before the fire and orders me to sit. I do so and Peeta sees me fed. Then he strips every last piece of clothing from my body, carefully cleansing me with a sponge, finding each bruise and cut and tending to them. I shiver, gooseflesh arising from my skin as he kisses warmth back into me. When he is done, he sees me into a shift and holds up my dressing gown, but I refuse it. “Now I will see to your care, husband.”

He acquiesces and I repeat the ritual. One piece of clothing at a time. Blood and sweat washed clean. I examine his hands and find miniscule cuts from the glass. I carefully spread a paste of herbs over his palms then wrap them in clean bandages. I dress him in his night shirt then demand that he eats.

Finally, we are both clean and cared for, ready for sleep. But as we lay there on the narrow bed, Peeta’s body wrapped around me, warmer than a fur and tighter than a glove...I cannot find sleep. I listen to Peeta’s breathing and allow him to caress over my hair, my ear, down to my neck. How long we stay like that, I cannot be certain.

“Do you sleep?” I shake my head and he kisses the back of my head. “What do you need, my love?”

“You.” I turn in his arms and fix him with my gaze. “I need you, Peeta.”

And just as before, the words demand kisses. I press myself to him as my lips ply his for a response. He gives it swiftly, deeply and profoundly. His hand clenches on my hip as we kiss. I feel the hunger awakening inside me. My soul needs sustenance, a hunger only Peeta can appease.

“I need you,” I whisper as he kisses down my throat and caresses over my hip, down to my thigh. He pushes my shift up my hip to expose me to his touch, lifts my leg and wraps it about his waist. I tighten my leg about him, drawing us together. Tight, so tight that I can scarcely breathe as he kisses over my skin. 

“I need you,” I whine as his fingers find me and love me. His motions slow and deliberate. “Peeta.”

He moans as I move aside his shirt and find him, hot and hard and thick in my grasp, throbbing with his pulse. I revel in it, the proof of his life in my hands as I stroke his length and he groans my name.

The bed creaks as he moves us. My thighs part for him and he settles in their welcome embrace. I can feel my muscles quiver with need as he takes my hands in his, the bandages soft against my palms as he stretches our hands over my head. He holds himself above me, the weight of his hips an anchor to him, to the world, to life itself. His eyes do not leave mine, and I am glad of it. I cannot look away from the blazing need I see in their stormy blue depths, a sky of churning need, the same desperation I feel. Our fingers grasp and clench as he moves between my legs, painting himself with my arousal as I whimper and plead. I writhe against him, his erection sliding through lips grown wet with need, heated with desire, lush with anticipation.

“I need you. Please, Peeta. I need you.”

He gives me no verbal answer, only releases one hand to grasp himself and tease me. I cannot see. I cannot look away from his eyes and see his motions but God above can I feel them, delicious and divine and utterly decadent. I set my palm on his chest to feel the thunder of his heart. He watches my eyes rather than his actions as I feel him parting me, slowly sinking into my depths. Deeper, deeper, until he can go no further.

I twine my legs about his hips and complain about the fabric between us. Peeta smiles and with his hips flush to me, our bodies one, he releases my other hand. We work to remove his shirt then my shift, flinging aside assiduous fabric that would keep us apart instead of as we belong — bare and uncovered, scars on full display for we are not creatures of beauty. We are creatures of beauty forged from pain. Smelted in fire and branded anew.

He holds himself over me as I caress his body. Allows me time to assure myself again of his soundness, that life still courses through his veins and thrums through his heart. Heart still beating, lungs still breathing, muscles still flexing and warming. Skin pliant and protecting.

“I need you.”

He uses one hand to pin both of mine to the bed, over my head, our fingers twisted together. Then he begins to rock his hips against mine, gentle as the lapping of a lake against her shores, shallow as the clear waters where the lake meets the earth. Slow and playful and exasperating. My nails dig into the soft flesh between his knuckles as I gasp and beg, the fire in my loins unbearable.

“Please, please, Peeta! I need you. I need you.” I set my feet on the bed and move to meet him with each deliberate pulse. He sets his hand on my hip and holds me down. I beg, a singing litany pleading for him.

“I need you.”

“How?” he whispers to me. “Deeper perhaps? Like this.” 

Peeta wedges a hand beneath me and lifts my hips, shifting the angle. I bite back a scream as he fills me and I fly near to the edge, close enough to see sunsets and starbursts before it recedes and he returns to his shallow movements.

The bed groans beneath us, to the tempo of his thrusts. I watch his eyes turn to glass and flames. A bead of perspiration forms at his hairline and slowly travels down to his nose. I watch its progress and feel its slow path in my loins, a tease, a gradual build. It becomes our song in the night.

“I need you!” 

Echoed in a groan of stressed wood and an elongated moan of a man on the brink of ecstasy as he plunges deep for one blissful moment before pulling himself back and teasing me more. 

“I need  _ you _ .” 

Again and again. Faster and faster. Shallow, shallow, shallow, then deep. Underlaid with wordless pleas of increasing desperation. Our skin grows hot and slick. My sex and my chest ache with unbearable need. Peeta releases my hands, his palm moved to rest flat on the head board as he continues to thrust. 

“I  _ need _ you.”

“Do you?”

“Yes. Now. Forever. Always,  _ Peeta _ .”

Eyes locked, bodies melded, I caress over him. Every last bit of skin I can reach feels the kiss of my fingers, the heat of my palm. Cords of muscle flex beneath my touch, twitch at the bite and scrape of my nails as he loves me from within, pushing me higher with each measured stroke inside me. I am aloft in a cloud of it, burning and yearning and beyond reach as I grab hold of the flesh beneath my palms, lifting myself as close to him as possible, until I may bond with him as melted metals do.

“I need you I need you I need you,” I cry as tears stream down my face and release consumes me, claims my soul for his. “Peeta please -- please -- please -- I need  _ you _ !”

The last is a terrible cry as I convulse around him, lost and weak and perfectly forged as iron beneath his touch. Molded to him and unbreakable. And the bed creaks in sharp bursts beneath his powerful thrusts as he seeks to follow me. The slap of his skin to mine. Still I convulse and sing in ecstasy. 

“Katniss. My love,” he gasps. He thrusts deep one last time and stays there, mouth open in a soundless scream of release, abdomen spasming against mine, our pulses thundering in our chests and groins, pounding against one another and our lungs heaving. I see veins drawn taut across his skin, over rigid muscle. Feel the pulse of him releasing his life and liquid bits of his soul deep inside me where I will keep him safe. Watch the exquisite relief and pleasure in his eyes. My body spasms in the last few waves, welcoming him, drinking him in.

I grow limp and so does he, reposed on top of me, chanting my name and that he loves me, that he cannot lose me, in awed whispers that tickle my ear. Kissing over my face, kissing up my tears, caressing my hair. His chest crushes my breasts to him and they thrill at the feel of his heat, his soft hair tickling and teasing my nipples. I caress my fingertips up and down his spine as I languish in the feel of our love. Glowing, sated, limp, and heavy. I could sink through mud to the center of the earth in this state and not care a whit so long as Peeta goes with me.

Then his lips finally come home to mine and I hold tight to him, hold him to me so that he will not leave me, not dare to kiss any other part of me until I am ready. And we are still kissing when morning light tip toes her way into our refuge.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Having been informed of the incident, Haymitch arrives in his carriage to collect us after a full day and two nights of languishing at the inn, and we are silent on the return trip. Frederick sits next to my uncle, his broken leg propped up, fidgeting nervously at being closeted with the three of us. I cling to Peeta, still unwilling to let him out of my sight for an instant.

I am uncertain what to do with myself. There feels a sort of separation. Who is this woman in the carriage, clinging to my husband? I do not recognise her for she killed a man the other night. 

Yet I have no time to examine the events, or my feelings on the matter. I do not even have time to blush and feel embarrassed over the way in which I demanded Peeta love me, begged him to couple with me. His hand clasps mine tightly, held atop his thighs, as though uncaring if the other passengers might feel discomfort at our displays of intimacy.

I have no time to examine any of it, for our first stop as soon as we reach town is the orphanage. We had planned to spend the night prior to our appointment at Haymitch and Effie’s, that we might be rested. Now we will need to make the best impression possible on no sleep and only a half of a sponge bath. Our clothes rumpled from travel in the trunks but the alternative was to wear again our damaged and blood stained wear.

Peeta steps from the carriage, using his cane as the scuffle appears to have bothered him more than he let on previously. He helps me from the conveyance and I take a deep breath of air. Mr. Burbank already awaits us outside the orphanage. I take little note of him except that he looks much like a solicitor, if a little portly. He is balding and wears spectacles, but his manners and dress are all immaculate. Introductions are made, hasty as we’ve no time left at all before our appointment.

“Good luck. I will see you at the house after,” Haymitch says and the carriage leaves us.

Peeta loops my arm through his and I grasp the fabric of his coat, nestled in his elbow. We ascend the steps of an immaculate building, strange given the neighborhood. The windows gleam and as we follow Mr. Burbank, I spot a young child carrying a mop and bucket. As soon as he spots us, the lad’s eyes widen and he turns about, hurrying right back inside.

“We take her away from here as soon as possible,” Peeta says, eyes honed in on something in the nearby alley. I follow his gaze and spot another urchin boy crouched among the litter and refuse.

“Agreed. Today, if we can.”

“Mistress Coin, may I present my clients. Mr. and Mrs. Peeta Mellark,” Mr Burbank says as we cross the threshold into a dimly lit hall. I manage a curtsy, my attention mostly consumed by the stern looking woman, her face scrubbed to a polish and her grey hair styled in a severe part down the center of her head then twisted up into a tight bun. No wisps of hair escape. Her cold grey eyes examine us and she sniffs.

“A pleasure. Follow me.” 

An arching staircase leads immediately upstairs and I follow the immaculate carpets and rails up, up and up. At the top, I spy two pairs of tiny hands gripping the rails. Two more children watching us. The place is so unearthly silent that I am astonished to see actual children.

Mistress Coin leads us away from them, deeper into the first floor, to a tidy room that must be her office. It is sparsely furnished. A desk, two chairs in front and one behind, a small cabinet, and nothing else. The floors are scrubbed to a dull shine and the entire room smells somehow of orange and coriander. I would have thought the scents soothing, but as the woman says:

“Sit.”

I feel the furthest from soothed. I wonder if Peeta and Robert were ever sent to the headmaster’s office in their days away at school. I can imagine they were, for some bit of mischief or another, and the feel of his arm tensing beneath my hand serves to soothe me far more that the scents of this room could hope to. 

He helps me into a chair and insists that Mr. Burbank take the other, choosing to stand behind me with his hands resting on my shoulders. The message is clear to this Mistress Coin. We are united, strong. We cannot be intimidated.

“As we have discussed, my clients would like to adopt your ward, the child named Miranda, aged nearly eight years old.”

“Indeed, I recall our many discussions, Mr. Burbank and must ask you again...have your clients considered adopting a different child?”

“Why would we?” I ask, annoyed with the tone that this woman uses. “Miranda is already family. We are simply seeing her home.”

“Miranda is disturbed. She is not suitable for adoption. However, there are any number of other suitable children here who would make delightful additions to your family.”

I sit back and Peeta’s hands squeeze slightly. Mr. Burbank says something about how that is not confirmed and how Moistress Coin has not allowed him to interview the child. Peeta’s voice cuts through the argument before it can start.

“Disturbed how?” I turn my head to gauge what he is thinking. Why would he ask such a thing? She is being sent to a workhouse, of course the poor child has been acting out!

“We have done everything that we can, but we have limited resources here. We are not an asylum but an orphanage.”

“What has she done that leads you to believe she is disturbed?” Peeta repeats and Mistress Coin stands. 

“Very well. I wished to spare you the pain, since you claim she is your half sister. Contact may be the only way in which you will believe me.” She rings a bell and a moment later, a short squat maid shows at the door. “Bring Miranda here.”

The maid’s eyes dart between Peeta and I and Mistress Coin for a moment and then she vanishes. As we wait, Mr. Burbank continues to assert that there is no reason for Mistress Coin to deny our application to adopt Miranda. We are both born of established families of good name and adequate financial means. Should we adopt Miranda, our good graces could mean more children finding homes. Mistress Coin appears more annoyed by his words than interested in them.

While we wait, Peeta’s hands move over my shoulders, massaging the tension from them much the way he massages life into bread. I sink into the blissful feeling and briefly wonder at the fate of the cheese baked rolls he brought in our carriage. My mouth waters at the thought of them. I’m so lost in my daydreams that at first, I think she is an apparition. A skinny waif with pale, pale skin, freckles dusted across her nose and cheeks. Dark blue eyes stare back at me. Darker than the deepest of oceans. Unwavering and challenging. She wears a simple but clean dress, well worn and patched in a few places. A brown swatch of fabric is tied about her head in the style of a turban, concealing all of her hair.

“Come child, tell these people your name,” Mistress Coin says and the room falls silent. Completely silent. Miranda still stares straight at me for another infinite moment of silence before turning her eyes to Mistress Coin, without moving any part of her body or face.

Dear Lord have mercy. My heart breaks in that moment, and it is only Peeta’s hands on my shoulders that keep me from throwing myself from the chair, bundling her into my embrace and running with her from this place. What horrors has she known and seen to make her thus?

“Will you give us your name, child?” Mr. Burbank requests sweetly. Miranda blinks and says nothing. 

“There. Now you see. She is disturbed. Refusing to speak is only one part of it. The rest are a series of disturbing interactions with the other children and the staff.” Mistress Coin moves back behind her desk, dismissing the child without doing so explicitly. “I have taken the liberty of selecting several other children whom you might be interested in adopting instead.”

Mistress Coin has moved on, but my eyes remain fixed on Miranda. I see the slight flinch of her hands at the words implying that we were interested in adopting her. Once more, I tilt my head back and gaze up at Peeta. I see his eyes fixed on Miranda as well, the tick in his jaw that means he is angry. Furious, even. At what, I cannot be certain, but I have a hunch it is the same fury that boils inside me.

“What disturbing interactions?” I ask as I turn to face Mistress Coin, interrupting her in the midst of her litany of far more acceptable children.

“I beg your pardon?”

“You said there was a series of disturbing incidents with the other children and staff. What incidents?”

“They are quite troublesome and I would not dare horrify you with such anecdotes. Now if you will consider David Ke--”

“I am sure David whatever his name is is a fine child and deserving of a home. We are here to adopt Miranda. We are not, however, irresponsible and reckless and would like to know what exactly she has done so that we may help her.”

“She is troubled, beyond help. The other children fear her and the staff does not like to deal with her.”

“Mistress Coin, forgive my saying so, but if we were searching for a paragon of childhood to adopt, we would be searching for all eternity,” Peeta speaks up. “Perhaps you should allow us the opportunity to determine if Miranda is beyond our help.”

“Given our own histories, my husband and I may be better equipped to raise a child you may deem troublesome,” I add, perhaps foolishly so. Mistress Coin narrows her eyes at us. 

“You have so many children here, it must be difficult to care adequately for them all. Anyone would understand,” Peeta says placatingly. “I do believe we are allowed a private interview with the child prior to adopting her?” 

Mistress Coin stands and moves to her cabinet. She unlocks it and pulls forth a very thick folio, dropping it unceremoniously onto her desk, atop three or four much thinner ones. Records of the children, I realize.

“Very well. But be warned...I will not take her back if you go through with this. She belongs in a workhouse or a convent.”

Mistress Coin sweeps from the room. Miranda does not even move to give the woman space, but stands firm, eyes fixated on Peeta and myself.

The room cleared of all save myself, Peeta, and Miranda, I shift to kneel on the floor, spreading my skirts as I watch her.

“Hello, Miranda. My name is Katniss. This is my husband, Peeta Mellark. We are pleased to meet you.” No answer. 

So I fill the void. I tell her about Everdeen. The sloping hills and the forests. The cool snows of winter and the spiced cider we drink to keep warm. I tell her of the lake and the scents in spring when the world blooms. The warm greens of summer and the crops as they grow. I tell her of the harvest, festival and the bounty of the earth. I spin reality into a play for her, a tale of landscapes and people wandering in. All the strays who have found their home in mine. I talk and talk and talk and when I am done, I fold my hands and smile at her. “Does that sound like some place you would want to live?”

She blinks once and then steps forwards. I am half expecting her to embrace me when instead, she reaches for me and grasps my hair, turning my head. I gasp at the sharp pull on my scalp and wonder what I did wrong. But just as quick as she touched me, she releases my hair and steps back. She shifts her gaze to Peeta and with a defiance burning in her eyes, she peels off her turban.

Fire.

It is the only way to describe Miranda’s hair. Flaming red with strands of gold that flicker and gleam, twisted into tight corkscrews. An utter riot of fire atop her head. Wild and uncontrollable. Sudden tears prick at my eyes as I hear Peeta’s involuntary sound of surprise.

“Oh Miranda,” I say softly. “Such lovely hair you have. Why do you hide it?”

Her eyes leap back to mine, shock in their dark dark depths. God above, did they make her into this silent wraith because of her  _ hair _ ?

“My mother had such locks,” Peeta says, emotion thick in his voice as he adjusts his leg to sit on the floor next to me. She looks between us and begins to sniffle, shaking her head and fighting for control, for distance. I can see it in her eyes. The disbelief that anyone could want her. Finally she manages it, and I am once more faced with the crushing depths of an ocean I could not hope to pierce with light.

“We would like to make you a part of our family,” I murmur. “But we understand if we are not what you are expecting or hoping for. We leave the choice in your hands.”

Voices approach from down the hall. Our interview ends.

“Here,” Peeta says and stands. He takes her turban and together, we manage to hide her hair once more. I would rather leave it flying free, a banner of defiance to the rest of the children, but I think I begin to understand.

Miranda is a survivor. She has done what she needs to survive, and if hiding her hair is part of that, if remaining silent is her shield against pain, then so be it.

Mistress Coin returns with Mr. Burbank and orders Miranda taken back upstairs. Miranda scurries from the room with the stout maid. “I have introduced several of the other children to Mr. Burbank. I can have them brought down one at a time for you.”

“No,” Peeta says, helping me up from the floor. “We have had our interview and we wish to adopt Miranda. We will be back tomorrow to sign the papers.”

“Mr. Mellark--”

“We are certain, Mistress Coin. We have met her and I have perused your records. Our decision remains unchanged.”

“Very well. If you insist. I have warned you. However, the paperwork will take several days to process through appropriate channels.”

“Then we shall return tomorrow to visit her, and every day hence until the paperwork is finalised,” I say.

Mistress Coin nods. She tidies up her desk and Mr. Burbank is smiling as we depart. For my part, I search the stairs and watch Miranda ascend them. The children lining the bannister, watching the proceedings with curiosity give her a wide berth. One of them motions in the sign of the cross. I frown at this, wondering what Peeta saw in those files.

Haymitch’s carriage waits for us and Peeta is silent on the way to the house. He is silent as we unpack and settle in to our guest rooms. At one point, he brings forth his drawing supplies. I expect him to sit and draw for a few minutes, to clear his mind.

But he grips the pencils so hard, they snap in his fist. Then with a strange shout, he flings the sketchbook into a chair, the pages fluttering madly.

I stand there, stunned. His shoulders heave with heavy breaths and he leans on the mantle. I hurry over to him and embrace him, hoping to absorb the pain and confusion and demons plaguing him. One by one, he drops the shattered pencils into the flames. We watch them catch fire and burn.

“Katniss…”

“I hear the doubt and hesitation in your voice, husband,” I whisper.

“You did not read what has happened. You did not see the drawings they have confiscated from her.”

“It does not matter,” I say and kiss his shoulder over his clothing. “She belongs with us. It is as you said. We will sign the papers as soon as they are ready and remove her from that place…. Did it say how long she has been silent?”

“Over a year,” Peeta whispers and I nearly cry right then. An entire year of silence. How terrifying. How lonely. “She has been involved in physical altercations nine different times in the past two months.”

“Poor Miranda,” I whisper and he nods.

“I want her to know that it is alright...her silence. If she needs it to protect herself and chooses to live in it then we will respect her silence, and if she speaks…”

“Then we will love her song,” I say.

He turns to stare down at me. And blinks once. For one moment, I am struck with the similarities. It makes me think that perhaps they both share their mother’s eyes. And then I am lifted into his arms, my lips silenced beneath his kiss. I can taste the desperation and know.

The beast needs loving this night. And so I shall give it to him, as he has given love to me.


	27. Chapter 27

The beast, it so happens, has a companion. A dark creature who steals into the night and taunts with memory and imagination alike. Woven together with fear, they are powerful weapons. 

I wake to movement, my body manipulated and pulled. I thrash to escape my attacker. Until his hands cradle my cheeks and his voice reaches me through the icy grip of fear entrapping me.

“Katniss. My love. Wake up, darling.”

I gasp something like his name and cling to him as he wraps me in his arms. Peeta rocks me as one would a babe, murmuring soothing words and I sob against his bare chest. My nails scrape and search for purchase, for something in which to entrench themselves as my heart pounds fear through me.

“I lost you. I lost you.” I chant the words in a broken refrain.

“I am right here. You found me, my love. I am right here.”

Finally, my fingers find the hair that curls over his chest in the dark and burrow in the coarse strands. I must be hurting him. I know that I must be, and yet, he does not cease holding me. His words pour over me, his strong arms warding off the return of night visions of terror and obscuring those of the past until my heart beats and my lungs breathe at something resembling normal.

“Do you wish to tell me about it?” I should. We have shown that speaking of the horrors that live in the deep recesses of his mind has helped Peeta to face them. The same should hold true for me.

Yet I still fear that giving words to the images will somehow turn them real. I am not ready to relive watching him die in unimaginable pain again and again. I wish to simply remain here, safe in Peeta’s arms, my refuge from the world. I shake my head as he caresses over my face, assures me that if I do not wish to speak, then he will simply hold me until I find sleep again. That he will hold me after, until morning finds us safe and well. Then his lips are there to comfort me. 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

We have much to do, come the morning, and are swift to rise, despite the dark shadows beneath both of our eyes. I trace the shape of them on Peeta’s face and open my lips to apologise for disturbing his sleep.

“Is this guilt in your eyes?” He stops my words with his own, and also with his thumb brushing over my lips.

“I kept you awake far too much last night.”

“I do not mind, my love. You are tired as well. And it is as you said...we protect one another.”

“Yes,” I agree, unable to fully accept what it happening to me. “How come it has not affected you?”

“It has,” he says with such a deep sadness in his eyes that I know he speaks the truth.

“You should wake me then. So that I may comfort you.”

“There’s no need. You comfort me simply by being there, allowing me to hold you. These are familiar demons to me, Katniss, and…” He grins and feathers kisses over my eyes. “The manner in which we began the night goes a long way to soothe the demons, to set them to rest.”

“Oh,” I blush and think of the words he poured into my ears, the heated kisses with which he covered me, the feel of our joined bodies seeking and finding release together. I had been expecting the brute in our bed and instead welcomed Peeta’s tender love for me.

“But I can wake you, if you like. Simply so that you know we are together in all of this.”

“Please,” I say and he nods, seals the promise with a sweet kiss. “We need to go visit our daughter. For now, I think the best we can do for her is to keep to our word, to be there every day until she is legally ours.”

“I believe you are right, my love.” 

“She will be needing new dresses. I should like to get her measurements and send them on to Susanna.” Jeffries’ wife and our new seamstress. Then she may begin her first task as part of our staff — crafting dresses for a child.

“As you wish,” Peeta agrees, the smile tipping up his lips tells me he approves heartily. Then, we leave our rooms to face the day.

We become a thorn in Mistress Alma Coin’s side. We visit daily as promised, requesting time with Miranda, and only Miranda. We eschew Mistress Coin’s attempts to force us into meeting with other children. Would that I had the room and the funds, I would adopt more of them. I see their curious eyes and their fearful hiding when we enter the building. I hear their quiet steps and whispers as we leave. But we haven’t the room and so I must be content to do what I can and, for now, focus on Miranda. 

We are allowed only a few minutes with Miranda each day, but we fill them with plans and small stories. We bring tea one day and I watch her savor the biscuits as though she’s never tasted anything so sweet. I think that perhaps we have reassured her of our intentions, but when I smile at her after, something strange happens. She stares at me and smashes her teacup on the table before running from the room. 

That night, we lay in bed, wrapped in one anothers limbs, sharing gentle touches and gentle words spoken to the crackle of burning wood as we discuss Miranda, what Peeta saw in Mistress Coin’s records. We discuss our fears for her, our concerns, and how best to proceed with a child who has been accused of any number of crimes against her fellow orphans. Everything from thievery to physical brawls to witchcraft.

“The thieving from the kitchens I can understand,” Peeta explained. “When my mother and I were on the streets, there were days when stealing was the only way we would eat that night. So yes, I stole fruits, breads, a coin here and there. Some days, I would draw portraits for coin. Accept payment and then snatch an extra or two when the patron was not looking. I was fortunate I never got caught.”

It makes me wonder, how far would I go to keep from starving, to protect myself and the ones that I love. I did shoot a man on the road. He would have killed us, yet hearing Peeta speak of his time on the streets and how Miranda’s life at the orphanage might not be any better, a constant fight for scraps in a place of limited resources and too many mouths to feed, makes me question the very nature of what I have considered honorable and dishonorable.

Yet I also wonder how much of her violence is caused by a need to protect herself. How much grief does she give to the staff because she already knows they despise her. Why act any different if the only way to gain their attention is to act out against them. I saw the quiver in her lips as she attempted to disguise tears. I saw the excited twitch in her fingers and toes at the idea that someone might want her. 

Then I think of my husband, and his years in a home of never being truly wanted. How difficult to bear after a childhood filled with love. Miranda never had that. She never knew Nancy or whoever her blood father might be. She never had a William Thackeray to give her the weapons to fight against such a cold, unfeeling world. No one to love her unconditionally.

That duty falls now to Peeta and I.

The following day, she seems shocked to see us again. I remind her that we will be visiting daily and we begin our visit by gently explaining to her that if she is angry or scared, there are acceptable ways to release those feelings. Hurting someone or destroying the belongings of another are not such ways. Peeta then presents her with parchment and pencils. She eyes the objects with great distrust until he slides one sheet off the top, asks to borrow it and one of her pencils. She squints at him for a moment and then nods once. Peeta begins to draw. For a moment, Miranda and I are both mesmerised as his hand works over the page, shading quickly taking form. 

Without warning, she stands in her chair and grasps his face, halting his work. Miranda points to his scars, without any finesse, essentially jabbing her finger into them, then towards the paper in front of him. I tilt my head and realise what he has sketched so far. There are human shapes cloaked in smoke and shadows, flames licking the ground.

“Yes,” he murmurs. “There are some fears and angers that may lessen with care and time, but never truly fade. So I draw them, so that the only thing they hurt, is the paper.”

She sits and kicks her legs for a moment, then snatches up a pencil and bends over her paper, sneaking furtive glances at both of us as she draws, hunched over so that neither of us can see what she creates.

She and Peeta sit and draw for nearly two hours while I read. It is a small sample of what life as part of our family could be, and we are fortunate for so much time, as Mistress Coin is occupied elsewhere in the orphanage with a troublesome child. I smirk to myself that it cannot be Miranda causing the orphanage staff grief.

When we leave, she shyly hands two of her drawings to Peeta and keeps the third tucked close to her chest.

“Thank you, Miranda,” I say before I even look at the drawings. Her lips curl slightly, perhaps a smile, perhaps not. Mistress Coin ushers her back upstairs before I’ve a chance to find out.

“Well I hope you enjoyed your visit. Miranda set up a trap upstairs. A bucket of soot that doused several of the children and their clean laundry. It took the entirety of her time with you to clean up the mess.”

Peeta turns his head away and I wonder if he is laughing. Then I wonder if Miranda did so to lengthen our time together or to shorten it, believing that Mistress Coin would force her to assist in the clean up instead of visit with us. Then something else occurs to me.

“How do you know it was Miranda and not one of the other children?”

“It took two hours to force her to admit it, but Nelly saw Miranda setting it up.”

“We will speak to her about it,” Peeta assures Mistress Coin. We remind her that we will return tomorrow and she glowers at us but says nothing. Not since Mr. Burbank reminded her that he had no qualms turning to a magistrate to assist us should she attempt to block our adoption of Miranda.

“Do you think she did it?” I ask as we walk to the carriage.

“I do not know.”

I look then at the drawings and stop dead in my tracks.

Peeta glances over my shoulder and nods. “It is much like many of the drawings in her records.”

A small form tied to a stake, recognisable with her wild corkscrew curls, flames licking about her body. Several children dancing with glee about the flames, but perhaps more disturbing is the shadow claws and eyes in the smoke over the pyre.

“Oh Miranda,” I whisper and then shuffle to the second drawing. It is startling in contrast, with its gentle depiction. The lines are more shaky and the details less certain, as though Miranda knows how to draw the macabre with little effort, but not happy scenes. This second one is of me as I sat near the window, reading. I blink back tears and reach for Peeta.

“There is hope,” he whispers as he holds me.

But it is clear that all is not entirely well. The dreams… they haunt me. Crashing ice and scorching flames. I chase phantom cats and follow uneven footsteps through soot and frost, never able to catch him. And now Miranda joins the parade of horrors, burning silently in the night and then morphing into a monster of shadows and smoke. 

Dark shadows of sleep deprived nights form beneath my eyes, and Peeta’s as well, for he is always there to comfort me when I wake screaming for him, sometimes for Prim. New horrors of losing the baby arise and I am obsessive in checking myself for symptoms of loss. None arise and yet I worry that the fear and worry of the loss may cause it to happen. Such superstitions do me no good and yet I am unable to halt them. I lose my temper with Haymitch, and once with Peeta as well, over silly things.

Miranda is ushered in to see us one day, filthy and stinking of refuse. She smirks at us and I sit at the table to lunch with her, pretending that the stench does nothing to me. As we leave, Peeta holds me steady while I retch into an alleyway.

“Perhaps we should--”

“No!” I shout and glare back at him. “We will not give up on her. That is what she is expecting, and it is the opposite of what she needs. We will simply have to give her a thorough scrubbing as soon as she is ours.”

“Katniss,” he tries to protest and I wipe my mouth with the back of my glove, shaking my head.

“Trust me in this, Peeta. We must pretend we do not see these awful tendencies unless they are harmful to someone else or truly dangerous to herself.”

“What good will that do if it makes you sick?” I have no answer and climb into the carriage with as much grace as I can muster.

Peeta’s art becomes his obsession. He fills pages with dark and foreboding dreamscapes that make little or no logical sense. Half the time I cannot even determine what the images depict.

After the day that I retch into the alleyway, Miranda is scowling when she joins us. She drops into her seat and drinks tea with us, all while Peeta and I chat with her silence about how lovely she looks today, freshly washed and in a clean dress, and comment on her chambers at Everdeen, new dresses we would like to order for her.

“Thank you for a lovely afternoon, Miranda,” I say as I stand to depart. She stares up at me and I see a breaking in her eyes. Only for a second. I tease it back to the surface, determined. “May I ask what your favourite colour is, Miranda?”

She seems taken aback at first. Then she points towards Peeta’s waistcoat, which today is a soft shade of blue, near to that of a robin’s egg and woven through with silver threads.

“I am rather fond of this shade myself,” Peeta says. “I ought to be or I wouldn't wear it, right?”

Miranda’s lips tick again and then she races from the room. I smile as I hear her feet stomp up the stairs and a maid admonish her not to make so much noise.

I barge into Cinna’s dressmaking shop with Peeta in tow that afternoon and order two dresses, to be done by the end of the week, and something small to be finished by morning. We are almost late visiting Miranda the very next day because we must stop for it first thing.

As I present it to her, Miranda’s eyes grow wide. “May I?” I ask and she reaches out, uncertain and scared as she fingers the silver threads woven through, the knot at the crown of it. Finally, she nods and removes the tattered brown turban. Peeta holds both as I gather her hair back together, twisting it into a knot then tucking the fiery mass into the new turban in her favourite shade of blue, to match Peeta’s waistcoat. I pluck a few strands out to curl over her head then present a small glass to her.

As she stares at herself, she begins to breathe heavily, as though terrified. I coo to her, attempting to calm her. Footsteps in the hall and then faster than a flash of lightning, she snatches back the old brown turban and swaps them out, shoving the new one into my hands, shaking her head and making soft whimpering sounds that she cuts off as one of the maids walks past the open door.

She refuses to relax, refuses to take the new turban, and I leave frustrated and hurt. The rejection of the gift smarts until Peeta pulls me into his arms. Something occurs to me then.

“She didn’t hate it. She wanted to hide it. So the staff wouldn’t confiscate it and the other children wouldn’t try to steal it or destroy it.” 

“That is what I am thinking as well.” Peeta nods and I growl in my throat. “The sooner she is ours, the better.”

I feel useless, tied to a post with the flames licking at my toes. I am unable to ride, having left Sagittaria at home. I am unable to walk with Peeta for long without the cold becoming unbearable to one of us. There is no outlet for the tension building inside me. The only time I feel truly relaxed is during our quieter moments with Miranda, and my time at night alone with Peeta, whether I spend that time nestled in his arms and speaking softly with one another or in far more carnal pursuits.

Every night that Peeta wakes me from a nightmare, he asks if I wish to speak of it. I refuse and instead speak of it through the joining of our bodies. Until one night, I am crying when I crest, my entire being consumed and shaking. And as we lay there in the aftermath, our bodies still joined as one, his hot exhales fanning over my face, caressing up into my scalp as he kisses my tears away and begs me to speak to him, I can no longer keep the words contained. They spill from me in a torrent.

By the seventh day of Mistress Coin’s stalling, I am ready to launch a siege on the orphanage. We’ve now had time to visit Robert and Delly, order hair ribbons and fabrics in Miranda’s favourite shade of blue, send her measurements on to Susanna. Cinna has delivered her two creations for Miranda. We are now mere days prior to Miranda’s birthday, and we decide enough is enough and confront Mistress Coin. 

“The paperwork tomorrow.”

“These things take time,” she insists. “I presume you wish it to be legal and binding?”

“Of course we do.”

“Then you must give me time to ensure one of her blood parents will have no grounds to take her away from you.” Peeta flinches at this, but I continue the attack. Peeta and I both know that this will not happen. It is unlikely Miranda’s father is even aware of her existence, and her mother would perhaps rejoice in her son taking responsibility for her daughter.

“You have had ample time to do so. Tomorrow or we bring a magistrate to investigate.” Mistress Coin shows no reaction. “Perhaps he would be interested to know the difference between how much you receive for an adoption compared to what you receive from the workhouses,” I say and that gains a reaction.

She stiffens and glares at me. I wish to look away from the cold gaze but sense that to do so now would be a mistake, even when Peeta speaks.

“An institution such as this exists on the good graces of benefactors and donations, wealthy patrons, yes? It would be a shame if they all withdrew their support of your leadership.”

Oh it is such a dangerous ploy, but Mistress Coin narrows her eyes at him and sniffs once. “Very well. I will see what I can accomplish by tomorrow.”

I grasp Peeta’s arm and spin to leave. As we do so, I spot Miranda on the stairs, sitting alone and clutching what looks like a doll made of rags. Wisps of her red hair escape her brown turban.

“We will be back tomorrow,” Peeta tells her.

“We promise it, Miranda,” I add. She blinks once but gives no outward reaction.

I despise leaving her here, but I’ve no choice. Taking her now would amount to kidnapping. I sigh as we leave. 

That afternoon, Peeta has an appointment with the medical college, to arrange his studies. I am unable to sit still in the house and drag Haymitch out shopping with me.

“I would like to begin enacting our plans for travel,” I tell him as we alight from the carriage and he sighs.

“Yes, yes,” Haymitch assures me. “All is ready, as you’ve requested. You need only say that it is time and you will be able to depart.”

“Thank you, Haymitch. I wish to be on our way before the deep snows set in at Everdeen.”

“I should be put out that you are stealing one of my coachmen and one of my carriages.”

“You’ve no need of him. You never go out anywhere unless Aunt Effie forces you to do so.”

“I am out now.”

“Because I forced you.”

“I like my quiet.”

“As do I,” I say and step into the shop I need.

“You’ll be getting plenty of it, too,” Haymitch mutters and I scowl at him.

“She will speak in her own time.”

“Katniss...sweetheart, I know that you wish to do the right thing, but have you considered that perhaps you are...taking on too much?”

“Father wrote to you,” I say and Haymitch sighs. I feared this would happen. Father has expressed similar concerns after Jefferies and Susanna arrived at Everdeen.

“You do seem to be taking in a great number of strays.”

“And why not? I’ve the money, the room, and the heart to do so. Peeta is not complaining.”

“Not until your attentions are so split that you become a stranger to him. Katniss, having a child is a great deal of work.”

“I am aware. I do remember what it was like when Prim arrived.”

“And you are adopting one as well as bringing one of your own into the world. You and Peeta cannot afford to breeze through life on the assumption that all will be fine. You need to have...plans to deal with issues that might arise.”

“We do,” I say and examine the brushes before me. I wrinkle my nose. They are not quite right.

“Do you?”

“Yes. Whether you choose to believe it or not, uncle, you are not privy to all that my husband and I discuss, especially not when we are alone--”

“Agh!” Haymitch protests and I grin.

“So spare me your lectures. I appreciate your concern, but it is not necessary.”

He sighs then as the shopkeeper wanders over. “Very well. I suppose we will all have to trust that you and your husband have matters in hand. You may wish to include your parents on some of your plans, however.”

“Back again? Are you needing more pencils and such for the young girl?” The shopkeeper asks and I turn to him with a smile.

“Not today. I am searching for paintbrushes for a gift. For my husband.”

“Oh? I did not realise he had an interest in painting.”

“It is a hobby of his, neglected for some time now, but he is very talented and I hope to rekindle the interest.” 

The shopkeeper and I discuss the uses for the brushes and a number of other details. It takes some time, but we are able to decide on a set that should do the job. He wraps my purchase and escorts us to the door of the shop. As he does so, the bell over the door rings and I turn to face it so that I do not collide with the person entering.

“Ah! How fortuitous!” The shopkeeper exclaims cheerfully. “Ophelia! I must assume this young lady will be one of your future subjects! Mrs. Mellark, allow me to introduce Miss Ophelia Quentin. She is on retainer as a portraitist, commissioned artist, et cetera for the Marquis de Vale.”

_ Ophelia. _

Can you be stabbed in the heart with a paint brush? Can you die from such a wound?

I grip the package in my hands and watch her shake snow from her coat. She wears a smock over her simple dress. Spots of bright color dot it. Her smile is warm, the lines radiating from both mouth and eyes speak of a full life of laughter and love. 

Love.

Now I wish that one could truly be stabbed in the heart with a paintbrush. She’s lovely. Her face may be a touch narrow, almost fox like in appearance, and her mouth a bit tight, but her eyes are a warm chocolate brown. Her sleek brown hair is styled down but not loose. The cool winter sun streaming through the windows gilds her hair, illuminates the auburn undertones of the thick mass. This is no inexperienced girl, no blushing virgin, but a worldly woman. I blink several times and only manage to stop when she extends a hand to me.

“An honour. I had wondered about Sir Robert’s wife. There was such a rush about it, no wedding portrait painted as was done for the older two! We should remedy that, Mrs. Mellark. You have such intriguing expressions! I would love to capture them in paint.”  _ The older two _ ...as though Peeta does not even exist. Not even to this woman, his former lover. 

I suddenly wish I had not brought Haymitch as he scoffs at this, forcing me to explain. “I am not married to Sir Robert.”

Ophelia’s eyes widen just a touch. I might have missed it, had I not already been alerted to who this is and therefore watching her like a falcon preparing to dive onto a mouse. And now, I am presented with a choice. I could easily snub her. Cause a scene. But I reject that as soon as it flashes in my mind, the memory of Lady Mellark and her indecent displays of temper a quell for ridiculous or petty anger in myself. After all, I have Peeta’s vows and his love, the confidence that he would never stray.

So I smile. I smile and take her hand in mine, careful to grip firmly as I speak.

“My husband is Peeta Mellark, and I am Katniss Mellark.”

“Oh,” she says and falters for a second. A familiar look flashes in her eyes. It is one I know from a lifetime of hunting. It is the look of prey that knows it is caught. Because Ophelia knows who she is to Peeta, but has no way of knowing if I do as well. This gives me the advantage and I delight in her discomfort, only for a moment until she attempts to usurp me or upend my footing with a flick of her eyes at the package in my hands and a handful of words. “So then...he still paints.”

Such familiarity. I would like to rip her hair from her scalp but restrict myself again to mere words.

“Not recently. He does draw quite a lot, exquisitely so,” I say and think of the most recent additions to my sketchbook. Lovely renditions of Miranda, myself, and a few of Everdeen. “I only just learned of his painting skills on a recent trip to de Vale. The meadows he painted on his walls are quite breathtaking. Talent such as that should be nourished, not forsaken, so I am hoping to resurrect his interest in painting at our own home.”

Ophelia’s lips twitch in a half smile. A look of understanding seems to pass between us. I wonder if it would be too much to mention that I hope he might paint the walls of a nursery for our children, but decide not to. My point has been made. 

“Well. Until we meet again, Mrs. Mellark,” Ophelia says and I nod as graciously as I can manage.

“Until then, Miss Quentin.” She steps aside to allow us to pass through the door. I hold my head high until I am back in the carriage and sag in relief.

“If that is what I suspect it was...I am proud of you, Katniss,” Haymitch says and I take a shuddering breath, turning my face away to hide the tears forming in my eyes. “I assume his connection to her was wholly in the past? If not, he is a dead man…”

“Yes. No,” I mutter and shake my head before finally being able to meet his eyes, so like my father’s strangely enough, even though they are in no way related save through marriage. “I mean that yes, it was wholly in the past. Please do not call my husband out needlessly.”

Yet, I cannot seem to cease my weeping. “No, no crying, sweetheart.”

“How could you know?”

“Because I know you, my dear. And your Aunt Effie unfortunately had a similar encounter shortly after we were married. You handled it with just as much grace as she did, perhaps even more so. She threw a vase at my head once we were at home.” I laugh then and lean into his side. He shushes me and holds me as I cry out tears of tension. There is simply so much weighing on me right now, that this seems too much to bear. 

“I am worried about Miranda. That is why I am crying,” I insist, excusing my tears.

“As you should be, but we will see it taken care of. We will see it taken care of, sweetheart.”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

That night, I sit curled on the sofa before the fire, swimming in an ocean of strange melancholy that I cannot place. Peeta sent word that he would be dining with several of the professors and doctors, and therefore would be home late. It will soon be Christmas, the whole reason I ventured into that shop today for Peeta’s brushes. Now I wait for him as he arranges a future that does not include me.

I peruse the many drawings Peeta has made for me, and attempt to shake the strange feeling inside me. It is not jealousy. No, I realise that my thoughts are somewhat false. He does not plan a future without me, but one that works with me. As he said, wherever we make our home there will be need for a good doctor, to include Everdeen itself should Father manage to arrange things. 

I need only pay attention to the way Peeta treats me, loves me, seeks my counsel and provides his own when I need his steadiness, to know that we are true partners in life. I need only listen to the sounds he makes in the night, close my eyes to remember the feel of his arms and his lips, open them to absorb the care with which he draws me, to know that he loves me. Yet, I cannot help but think that something is still missing from this sketchbook. 

It is when he walks into the room, carrying a tray with tea on it that I know what it is. “I thought you might want something to help you sleep.”

So thoughtful, always so aware of my needs and wishes, I think as he slides it onto the table and stands with a sigh, rubbing at his thigh.

“I have no drawings of you.”

Peeta stops his ministrations and stares at me. “Why would you want such a thing?”

“Because you are my husband,” I say and sit forward. “The interviews went well, yes?”

“I believe so.”

“Then you will no doubt be starting your studies soon and leaving us from time to time, and I…”

I trail off as he sits next to me and traces my ear, tucking back several loose strands of hair. “I’ve never drawn myself before, Katniss.”

“Now would be a good time to practice then,” I say and hand him the sketchbook.

“Alright,” he says with a strange sort of laugh. “The lighting isn’t...um…”

I stand and scurry about the room, rearranging things until there is a fair amount of light on him where he sits and the glass is in front of him. He gives me a strange smile and then sets to work. I sit back on the sofa, enjoying the view as I watch his hands work, bringing the world to life, himself in this case. Every so often, I offer soft critique and he scowls at me.

“That is not how your lips curve when you smile.”

“Perhaps I am making a serious sketch.”

“Hm. Fine, but I shall want one of you smiling as well.”

“Oh?” he asks and smiles at me. “Why?”

“Because of that,” is all I can say as I motion towards his face and he shakes his head in confusion before returning his focus to his art. And it is art. I tuck my hands beneath my cheek and yawn, tension seeping from me as the pencil scratches over paper, a lullaby to my ears that draws me down into slumber.

I wake to a dim room and Peeta shifting beside me in bed. Restless, muttering to himself. I do not recall him carrying me to bed, but he must have. I reach for him and his arm swings wildly. I duck the blow and gasp, climbing atop him and shouting his name. I manage to grasp hold of his wrists and yell at him again. His eyes snap open and our hands land heavily above his head. I am gripping his wrists hard enough to hurt him, to hurt my own hands with the force of it.

“Katniss,” he says, his voice breaking with such pain. It sings to something deep inside me, calls in a harmony as old as time, and then… then something inside me snaps wide open.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

I stretch and shift in bed, already plotting a salve to relax the sore ache in my legs. Today is important, and I do not wish to be out of commission because of last night.

Thoughts of last night have me rolling to face Peeta. He is surprisingly already awake, sitting up in bed and staring at me, his cheeks flushed and his sketchbook open on his lap. Dark circles beneath his eyes. I wonder how long he has been awake. How little did he sleep last night?

Scorching guilt turns my body to an inferno as I clutch the sheet to my breast. I stole his sleep from him, demanded his attentions for a goodly amount of time, and now he peers at me with great concern, for me, I realise. I wonder if last night perhaps upset him. I do not move and wait for his slow smile to assuage my guilt.

“Good morning, my pearl,” he murmurs. Such love in his tone that I wonder how we managed to be so fortunate. “How do you feel?”

“A little sore. Well rested.”

“Mmmm, I am not surprised you slept well after last night.” I cannot meet his gaze any longer and look away, sit up carefully and feel the heat of his eyes on my back, caressing over my naked skin.

“And you, husband? How do you feel this morning?”

“Refreshed and...satisfied.”

“Not bruised?” I whisper and he chuckles, moves to caress me with fingers as well.

“I am not so fragile, wife,” he reminds me as he presses a soft kiss to my shoulder. Then another and I shiver. His kisses are petal soft and slow as the changing seasons. No, indeed he is not so fragile.

Once, not so long ago, I never would have believed I could be thus. Comfortably bare and exposed, my scarred body on full display to a man. There were others who have seen me. My mother, Doctor Aurelius, of course. There have been maids who have seen, as well. I could always tell the moment they felt it — revulsion. Their hands would flinch and they would take a quiet breath to prepare themselves before performing their tasks. I grew used to it, the disgust and shock. Perhaps they feared they might hurt me, even all these years later, had they touched me, but somehow I doubt that. I always knew it was disgust, not concern, as though hideous scarring such as mine could be contagious.

Peeta… Peeta is another matter entirely. Our skin painted in twin sets of scars. While his might be visible to all, they are as Maysilee called them, kisses of courage, viewed as a sign of valour earned on the battlefield, while mine… mine are a badge of disgrace, marring a woman’s skin and robbing me of what little beauty I could have laid claim to. Thankfully easily hidden. I have known this from the age of fifteen. 

Until a man in a mask kissed over them and called me exquisite, insisted that he could not be repulsed by such markings. I glance back at him as his fingers dance over my spine, my scars, as he shifts so that his thighs press against mine and I can feel awakened arousal pressed to my backside. And I know… I believe him. By some miracle, Peeta finds me exquisite and desirable. Perfect, if only for him.

Last night, was a revelation of sorts. After I woke him from his nightmare, I had thought to allow him to exorcise his frustrations through physical passion. Instead, it was I who snapped. I who snapped and seized control of our love.

Even now, I feel the ghosting flex of his wrists in my hands as I held him down and exerted my desires on him. The movement of his body beneath me as I took my pleasure of him. Several times before I allowed him his own. I hear his strained moans as I acted most shamelessly, demanding he accept what I doled out and then riding him with such abandon! With such enjoyment! 

True, in the past, I have on occasion been the instigator in our passion. There have even been several times when Peeta sees me settled atop him and hands me apparent control. Yet even in those moments, Peeta has always orchestrated the symphony of our bodies. I had not felt confident enough to lead the night. 

Until last night, when I assumed command and ordered him about like a harpy. Oh the things I did to Peeta would surely slay Father Crane on the spot of confession from the shock alone. Heavens, I remember planting my husband’s hands on my body and telling him what he was to do to me. And then Oh god! My body is on fire as I recall that after my first release, I sat on his mouth and demanded he love me like that, my knees pinning his strong arms to the bed. A sort of shame fills me as I think of the thrill, the enjoyment I garnered feeling his arms flexing and straining against my restraint of him as his mouth engaged in the most wicked of kisses. 

Peeta likely could have thrown me off of him with ease and yet, he chose not to. And that was only the start of it. He chose to obey my every desire well into the early hours of morning, to submit to me when I know that with a flick of his wrist or a flex of his powerful arms, he could seize back complete control. Last night...last night it was I who played the role of brute and I am now flaming with the shame of how much I  _ enjoyed _ it.

My thighs clench together and I am already aroused at the memory of it. I do not even know where the inspiration for such a thing came from! 

His fingers trace up my spine and delightful shivers chase after his touch. I relax as he slides his arms around me, kissing my shoulder as I am engulfed in his warmth.

“Katniss… love. Last night was exquisite. Do not hide from me. Please. Do not doubt yourself now.”

I tilt my head and manage a small smile for him. “I meant to comfort you.”

“And you did. In every manner conceivable,” he murmurs, reminding me in a few words that after our passion was spent the first time, we lay in bed, holding one another. 

“Here,” he murmurs and hands me my book full of his sketches. I trace over his face, so handsome and serious in the shadows. The finished sketch he began for me last night.

“I love it,” I say and turn that I might kiss his lips. “Thank you.”

“There’s another. You inspired me,” he murmurs and reaches around me to turn the page.

I blush at the blurred lines of motion, obscuring the details, but the act is apparent to me, as are the participants. I feel as though I am looking at a dream version of last night, sensual and erotic. 

“Do you like it?” he whispers, his kisses hot on my neck, causing me to shiver and whimper. His hands paint heat into my skin as he covers my naked flesh with his touch, down to between my legs, where I am already responding to him. “Oh heavens, you do like it, don’t you, my pearl?”

“Yes!” I gasp and startle as the sketchbook lands on the floor with a great noise.

Peeta chuckles against my ear and nibbles on the delicate flesh before whispering to me. “We should dress for the day. We are to bring home a daughter this afternoon and should not linger in bed. There is still much to prepare.”

Oh but the feel of his fingers plying me, his hands spreading my thighs in the cradle of his so that he might deepen his touches are a temptation I haven’t the strength to resist. So I do not.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

In the end, Mistress Coin has little choice. Mr. Burbank pores over the papers and finally nods, handing his quill to Peeta to sign first. I am struck with a memory, the anger with which Peeta signed our betrothal contracts. He is much more careful with this one, but that is likely due to the nature of this contract. We both enter into it willingly and with open hearts. There is also the absence of the Marquis this time. 

I stand next to Peeta and take his hand in mine when he is finished. He holds the paper steady for me as we hold hands and I sign my name next to his. A few more signatures and hand shakes and Miranda is officially ours to care for. I smile, giddy and relieved. Peeta turns to Mistress Coin, my hand still entwined with his.

“Her records, Madame.”

“What of them?”

“I would like to have them, if you please, as you’ve no need of them anymore.” Her pale grey eyes narrow at Peeta, but she retrieves the heavy folio and hands it to him. He tucks it under his arm and then motions towards the door. His hand shifts to the small of my back as we move towards the front hall where a tiny girl sits on the bottom step, her hair wrapped in a brown turban and a small satchel next to her, a grubby handmade doll clutched in her arms. She stands as soon as she sees us and I move to embrace her. She is stiff in my arms and I must fight back tears.

Lord’s sake I have cried far too much the past few weeks!

Today is meant to be happy, yet I sense that Miranda is not yet ready to believe her good fortune. She is not yet ready to accept our love, her future in our family. Perhaps she simply cannot trust any of it yet. No matter, we’ve time and love to spare for her.

As I step back, Peeta extends one hand to her. She eyes him then hands him her satchel. I take her hand in mine and we leave the orphanage. As we cross the threshold, I hear a loud whisper questioning who the devil would want to adopt a witch. Miranda turns stiff but does not respond.

“That’s it, darling. Hold your chin up. They are merely jealous,” I say and smile as I see her chin tilt up a fraction.


	28. Chapter 28

Miranda is greeted with much fanfare at Uncle Haymitch and Aunt Effie’s house. We of course explain to her that this is not our home, but the home of family, and that in two days, we will begin our journey to Everdeen. She clings to my hand and hides her face behind her rag doll as we enter.

There is a flurry of activity and Miranda is whisked from my grasp to be bathed and dressed for dinner in the dress I ordered from Cinna. My fingers clench in the air. I long to follow her, to be with her. Haymitch claims Peeta’s attention, the pair of them retreating to the study, and he does not notice my distress. Effie trills and drags me to the chambers I share with Peeta, a maid already waiting for us. In a worried daze, I retrieve the fire poker and jab at the pitiful flames in the grate. Effie’s words produce a buzzing behind me as I am solely concerned with Miranda. What she must be facing at this moment. It is only a bath, I remind myself and take a deep breath. The hand over my middle does nothing to calm the churning within. Only a bath, and yet...it is with strangers.

“Darling...will you not dress for dinner?” Effie asks and I turn slightly to face her quizzical expression. Then, the screeching begins. High pitched and wretched, accompanied by shouts.

Unthinking, I race next door and burst into Miranda’s rooms, wielding a fire poker and expecting a murderer or a monster...not two maids tussling with a child.

“Mrs. Abernathy says you are to wash! Come child!”

“Off with the dress!” They shout at her and Miranda thrashes, wriggling free and toppling a chair as she hides beneath the bed.

“Cease!” I shout and the maids stare aghast at me and my improvised weapon.

“What is all this racket?” Effie asks as she careens to a halt in the doorway. I fling aside the fire poker and the maids both jump at the clattering noise. Effie shrieks.

I shake my skirts out and pull my shoulders back. Clearing my throat, I manage to control my breathing but not my racing pulse. 

“A bit of adjustment is all. Miranda is not used to fancy baths, I imagine. Nor to strangers handling her person. She comes to us from an  _ orphanage _ ,” I stress to the maids and they share nervous glances.

“Oh,” Effie says. “Should she not be excited for this improvement in her fortunes then? This is a great opportunity for her.”

“It depends on how you view the changes in her fortunes,” I say and turn to face my Aunt. More biting words ferment on my tongue, but they will do no good. My temper riles and chafes. Peeta would know how to diffuse the situation. I lift my eyes to avoid chastising my aunt needlessly in front of her own staff. Then miracle of miracles! I am then struck with an idea as I stare at her hair, a slow smile overtaking my face. 

“Aunt Effie...your hair is quite lovely today.”

“Oh...well, I suppose it is.” She pats the coifed mass of ringlets and blushes slightly.

“However do you manage to keep those tantalizing curls from tangling horribly?”

“What? Oh darling, your mother makes a divine oil for me. Something from a rather exotic nut tree, I believe she said it was. Works wonders...why?”

“Might I borrow some? For Miranda,” I say. “She has such beautiful curls and I am certain the orphanage staff hadn’t the means, the knowledge, nor the luxury of managing them well. The prospect of having them brushed after so much neglect likely terrifies her.”

“Oh indeed,” Effie assures. “I would be happy to help, darling.”

She disappears to fetch it and I turn back to the two maids.

“Now. Lydia, if you would be so kind as to retrieve my dress and undergarments, my dressing robe and hairbrush, bring everything I shall need to prepare for dinner. I shall bathe and dress in here.”

“Here, ma’am?”

“Yes,” I say and motion for the two maids to get to work. Then I lower myself to the floor and stare beneath the bed. “I seem to have lost a kitten under here. Have you seen it?”

Miranda shakes her head with great vehemence.

“Hm. No matter. Cats despise getting baths anyways. I simply did not wish to frighten him when I begin splashing in mine.” This seems to garner her interest. When the maids return, I ask their assistance as far as my stays. Once those are off, I dismiss them. They exchange a strange look but do as asked.

As soon as the door is shut, I finish removing my clothes and carefully step into the warm water, sighing in relief as I sink into the depths and begin to sing. A carved wooden boat sits beside the tub and I finger it with a smile. It looks to be Haymitch’s work and his inclusion of Miranda warms my heart. Piling my hair atop my head, I then wash my body, stretching my arms and luxuriating in the feel of it. When I am clean save for my hair, I lean back and stretch my arms along the lip of the tub. 

With my eyes closed, I am more attuned to the sounds in the room. The rub of fabric over wooden floors. The scrape of a shoe. A sniffle. I can feel the small hairs on my arm stand on end and am able to remain still when Miranda touches my shoulder. I open one eye and smile at her.

“It is a lovely bath, my darling. Care to partake?” She shakes her head but traces shapes on my shoulder and arm, when I look down at them, I sober. My scars. I wait for her to meet my eyes before I speak again. “Do they frighten you?”

She shakes her head again.

“Good. I do not want you to be frightened of me. One day I shall tell you how I came by them. And Peeta his as well. We are family, Miranda. Family should not fear one another, but be able to trust one another. You must tell me if anything we do breaks your trust in us, yes?” 

I splash the water in front of me and she startles but smiles. It is the first true smile I have seen from her. I lift one brow and splash at her. She squeals and jumps back. Then with a wicked smile, she leans over the edge of the tub and splashes water right back at me. I scream with faux indignation and lift my hands to protect myself from further attacks as she continues to splash. The sleeve of her dress is soon soaked and wisps of her hair escape her turban.

Then, with little warning, Miranda strips her clothing and scrambles into the tub, her knee knocking the toy boat into the now churning waters. A great splash and waves crest over the sides onto the floor. I laugh as she surfaces, bedraggled wet hair hanging in strings in front of her face. She smiles at me, a toothy grin and then takes a deep breath before plunging beneath the water, her fingers wriggling like tentacles, slippery eels through the waves. She surfaces with a growl and swamps the boat.

“Oh no! A kraken!” I shout and laugh at her antics. She splashes about the tub for a moment and then grasps the soap. It flies from her hand and into the water. Her eyes widen and we stare silently at one another a moment. “It escaped! Quick, catch it!”

She splashes about to search for it, loud enough that I miss the entrance of my aunt.

“Is she not a bit old for such...baths?” Effie asks as she returns with the oil and I shake my head.

“Nonsense. You are never too old to make bath time fun!” I say and tickle Miranda’s tummy before handing her the soap.

“Very well,” Effie says with doubt, setting the oil on the small table beside the tub. “Your husband wonders at your whereabouts, Katniss.”

“Tell him the truth, and that we shall see him for dinner. Shiny and clean,” I say with a smile and Effies huffs again leaving us alone, although she mumbles protests at being treated as a messenger.

“Can I tell you a secret?” I whisper to Miranda and she nods eagerly. “Your Aunt Effie was once a pirate.”

Miranda stares at the door, her expression skeptical and I laugh.

“I know she does not seem it, but I promise you, she was once a fearsome pirate princess. Which means...she must be afraid of such a terrifying kraken! You will promise not to frighten her too much, won’t you? After all, she is our hostess.”

Miranda smiles and nods. The soap makes several escapes and I must help Miranda fish it back from the murky water. When she’s clean, we wash our hair. Miranda first scrubs mine under my guidance.

“See there, my darling. Nothing to fear,” I say as I squeeze water from my hair and smile at her. “Now your turn.”

She nods then allows me to scrub hers. A rinse and I stand from the tub, drying myself swiftly and donning my robe before assisting her. With Miranda wrapped in drying cloths, we settle before the fire. I sing softly as I work the oil into her hair and brush through it to remove the tangles. Then I use a cloth to squeeze excess water from it, leave it damp for the fire to do the rest of the drying while I take the brush to mine. I assist her into her dress and she smiles at the colour, gleefully spreads the skirts and spins, clapping her hands and smiling.

I then call for the maids and Miranda sits on the counterpane, kicking her slippered feet as she watches my dressing. At last, we are ready and make our appearance downstairs.

“Now. To dinner,” I say and turn towards the door. Miranda releases a sound of distress and grasps my hand, shaking her head vehemently and clutching at her curls. “What is it, darling?”

I am only given whimpers and send the maids along as I kneel before her, searching her terrified blue eyes for the words she cannot seem to say.

“I do wish you would speak to me, Miranda,” I whisper and her mouth gapes and shuts in a frantic pantomime. “But...I shall be patient. Your voice is worth waiting to hear. For now, I shall make the best guess I can. Is it your hair?” A frantic nod. “You wish it covered?” Another nod. “Oh darling, you needn’t ever hide your hair with us. But…” I search about the room until I find the blue turban, neatly laid out on the chest where the maids unpacked it. Carefully, I wrap it around her hair and pin it in place, plucking a few curls free to frame her face. “Until you are ready to go without it. There. All better?”

She examines herself in the mirror a moment and then takes my hand again. Snatching it back almost immediately and gazing up at me with horror in her eyes.

“Have I a toad hiding in my hand? Warts perhaps?” I ask and flip it over to examine. “Hm… no toad. No warts.” The faintest smile cracks her lips apart and I extend my hand to her. “Shall we?”

Hand in hand, we descend towards the dining room.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

“Would you care to explain what that was all about tonight?” Peeta asks with a lift of his eyebrow as he slides his cravat from his neck and drapes it over the corner of the mirror. I smile slightly and drop my gaze back to Miranda. She sleeps soundly, tucked in our bed, her rag doll clutched to her breast, her thumb tucked in her mouth, and her blue turban still wrapped around her curls. Several more strands have worked their way free and frame her face in a fiery halo that appears luminous in the firelight.

I have been so wary of flames since I was burned at the age of sixteen. Yet this tiny little flame of a girl has already crept into my heart. Tears threaten to spill as I smile at her and brush back a few strands of hair. It frightens me, how quickly she worked her way into my heart and yet, as I lift my gaze up to find Peeta watching me, I cannot regret a moment of my life since he and Jo pulled me from the mud.

“I am merely attempting to make her feel welcome in our family.”

He grins and I stifle a laugh. “Poor Effie.”

“Poor Effie, indeed,” I say. “Who knew she could so convincingly play the part of a Pirate Queen on a secret mission, even unaware of her role?”

Peeta’s laugh warms me, as did his willingness to play right along with our game at dinner, despite not having any warning before hand. And even though my head is tilted down, seemingly watching my own hand soothing our newly adopted daughter as she sleeps in our bed, my gaze is in fact focused on my husband as he removes his remaining clothes in preparation for bed. My pulse flutters in my breast and I smile to myself. Secret and loving.

My husband. My daughter, for she is my daughter. There is no one and nothing in this world that can convince me otherwise. Although a fledgling fear does flutter in my breast. Something Mistress Coin said, about her birth parents coming after her. At the time, I dismissed the fear, as it is unlikely the sire is aware of Miranda’s existence, and her birth mother… I glance back up at Peeta, my heart torn in two. A simple flick of a sentence and pain throbs dully in my breast. I know how dearly he wishes to find her, to see her again. But I cannot help wondering if finding her would mean losing Miranda, especially since Peeta wants to tell Miranda the truth one day, after she begins speaking again so that she might ask questions and have them answered fully. 

We’ve still no idea where Nancy is and so I know that I am simply borrowing trouble by worrying. I can do nothing for it tonight. Tonight, Miranda is my daughter, newly brought home to us, and so I lean down and kiss her brow.

“Sweet dreams, precious Miranda,” I whisper, adding a silent such wish for the child growing inside me as well. My family. Such a blessing I never thought to have when I was left marked and scarred. 

I am unsurprised when I sit back up and find Peeta standing beside the bed, watching me.

“Come on then. Now your turn, my love,” he says and I smile as I take his hand and slide from the bed, my skirts rustling across the coverlet. We elected not to use the services of Effie and Haymitch’s staff to prepare for bed this evening, preferring a quiet night, just the three of us. Especially after Peeta suggested that Miranda might not do well alone in the large, strange room next door. I agreed and so we offered her the choice, unsurprised when she chose to share a bed with us for the night.

I stand still while Peeta helps me disrobe, dropping soft as rose petal kisses on my skin as he works. I close my eyes and hum with content. “I think, dear husband, that I shall dismiss my lady’s maid when we return to Everdeen.”

“Why would you do that to poor Mary?” he asks, his touch faltering.

“Because she has much to deal with already with Mother and Prim, and now Madge, Miranda, Maysilee. The poor girl is overworked,” I say lightly. “Besides, I am rather fond of the manner in which you perform her duties,” I tease and find myself backed against the bedpost, heated blue eyes gazing down at me. I cannot resist one more taunt. “So efficient and skilled at undressing me.”

His slow smile heats me more than a roaring fire could ever hope to do. Did I say that I dislike flames? Perhaps I was mistaken, I think as Peeta slowly lowers his head. I close my eyes in anticipation of his kiss, gasping when his mouth caresses along my neck instead of my lips. Again as the suction of the kisses turns my knees to a quivering mess.

“Do you think you can be quiet, my love? You will wake Miranda,” Peeta chastises and I groan, the sound cut off as his words sink in.

“Miranda...Peeta you must stop. We will wake her,” I say frantically although he continues to kiss me, his hands grasping my buttocks and pulling me against him.

“I can draw the drapes around the bed so she will see nothing. As long as you promise to keep quiet,” he whispers and then laughs when I release a tormented moan, my desires split between the need to join with my love and the need to be a truly wonderful adopted mother to Miranda.

“I am not sure I can, husband.” He steps away from me then, a devilish smile on his face.

“Very well. Another night then, when Miranda is used to us and her new sleeping arrangements.”

“Yes,” I sigh in relief and also in disappointment. There is no telling how long it will be, although we believe that she will sleep well sharing a room with Maysilee, being used to multiple children sharing a room at the orphanage.

“At least permit me to finish undressing you,” Peeta says and slowly lowers himself to the floor before I can deny the request, carefully positioning his leg as he goes, his broad hands dragging over the fabric of my chemise then up my legs, beneath the fabric. I would not have denied him even if he’d given me the chance to answer.

I stare down at him and watch his eyes, still shaking and holding tight to the bedpost behind me, feeling each soft touch and stray caress as he removes my garters, unseen beneath the garment I still wear, but acutely felt. My stocking follows shortly after.

“Would you call this efficient?” He whispers. My legs quake with the caress of the words. I can barely answer, the dratted man, and he grins knowingly at my breathy response.

“In its own way.” Quite efficient at arousing me. Another eternity passes before the stockings are both off my feet and the chill of the air is nothing compared to the flames of desire licking up my body.

“Peeta,” I whisper, on the verge of changing my mind and drawing the drapes shut around the bed myself, and he grins up at me.

“Time for sleep,” he says and helps me beneath the covers where I stew in my own arousal, barely tampered by the presence of our child in the room. Peeta takes his time removing his false leg and finishing his preparations for bed. He extinguishes the candles, plunging us into darkness and then sliding beneath the covers with us. As my eyes adjust to the darkness, only the glow of embers in the grate to provide light, I smile and wrap Miranda into an embrace.

Sleep is swift, and I only just register Peeta’s hand covering mine, protecting us both as sleep claims me for the night.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Quiet sounds awaken me. I blink sleep from my eyes and stare through the darkness. Whimpering and whispers are all I register for a moment.

“Have you need to relieve yourself?” Quiet rustling in answer. “And the dark frightens you? ...Something else then?” 

A flame strikes and I squint at the sudden light. 

“Better?” I hear Peeta whisper and the silence of Miranda’s answer. My eyes have not adjusted yet and I blink a few more times before the room comes into focus.

Peeta helps Miranda scramble over him to the floor and turns his head to allow her some privacy. He finds me watching him and smiles slightly. Waits for her to see to her needs then helps her back into the bed. Her cheeks are brightly flushed and she stares at Peeta a moment before rolling over and wriggling close to me. I wrap one arm around her and close my eyes, soaking in the warmth of her small body cocooned with mine and her fingers grasping at my nightgown. A heavier arm wraps us both and I shift my legs, smiling widely as my bare foot finds Peeta’s leg. I then open my eyes once more to see his warm gaze over Miranda’s hair as I caress his strong calf with my toes. It is a small caress, a miniscule connection, and yet I feel so much in the soft stroke of my skin over his, the tickle of course hair and the indelible warmth of his body, the small pocket of warmth from Miranda wedged between us.

As Miranda drifts back into sleep, neither of us mentions that her turban has come loose, lost somewhere amongst the bed clothes. And if I were not already madly in love with him, my heart would near burst with it when Peeta presses a gentle kiss to the crown of Miranda’s head, right in the middle of her flaming mop of hair.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Our remaining days with Effie and Haymitch are a flurry of activity. A patchwork of images in my mind as I sweep down the hall with Miranda at my side. The room where Miranda barely stayed save for her bath, pretending to be a kraken. Down the stairs past the drawing room where she and Peeta could be found of an afternoon, hunched over paper with pencil markings smeared across their fingers or down the bridge of her nose where she itched. Past the study where she would brace her arms on the table and silently watch Haymitch and Peeta at chess. The library where she would curl up on the settee next to me and lay her head in my lap while I read to her. The dining room where our innocent games of pretend subterfuge made learning the rules of etiquette less frightening.

Our luggage is already packed and sent ahead in a cart, covered in a dirty canvas tarp this time, a concession made to alleviate lingering fears of another highwayman on the roads. The cargo this time is slightly battered from its last journey, but much more valuable with the new additions. The painting supplies and gifts I purchased for Peeta and Miranda. Nearly an entire trunk of borrowed or purchased books for Peeta to begin his studies. Frederick is now mended enough to make the journey, although since we are borrowing one of Haymitch’s carriages, his coachman will drive. 

Effie embraces us both and expresses a wish for a return visit. I smile and turn to follow Miranda, who has already raced down the steps towards Peeta and Haymitch. The brightness of her dress, or the swiftness of her movements, startles the horses waiting. They shift nervously and stamp. Miranda slips on the icy pavement and falls. The hooves begin to lift.

A terrifying scream and the bite of frigid air cuts through me.

Peeta’s hand thrusts out and yanks her back out of danger. He has her wrapped up in his arms and turns towards the stairs. Both of them look up at me with widened eyes and I nearly collapse as I hurry down the steps.

“Miranda! Are you all right?” I ask and quickly check her over. “A scraped knee only. Oh!”

“Are  _ you _ alright, Katniss?” Peeta whispers and lifts one shaking, gloved hand to caress my cheek. It is only when I notice the leather is damp as he withdraws his touch to shift Miranda in his hold that I realise I am weeping.

“Fine. Fine!” I insist and swipe at the damnable tears. Peeta pulls me closer and I fling my arms around Miranda as best I can while he still holds her.

It takes a moment of calming one another and a brief trip back inside the house for me to tend to her scrapes before we are ready to climb aboard the carriage. After I have carefully cleaned the cuts and applied a healing balm to them, I press a soft kiss just above the wound. Only then am I able to climb into the carriage, although I immediately pull her into my lap as we sway with the first motion.

She seems more confused than anything else, and I am eventually able to relinquish my grasp on her. Not entirely, only enough for her to curl up on the seat, her head resting in my lap as she dozes off, rag doll clutched in her embrace.

“Are you truly alright?” Peeta asks when Miranda is well asleep.

“No,” I say in a choked gasp and Peeta leans across the carriage to place one hand over mine, the one that has continuously stroked Miranda’s hair since she laid her head so trustingly in my lap. “Peeta...we have assumed responsibility for her. What if something should happen to her? I could never live with myself.”

“Would you rather take her back to the orphanage?”

“Would you like your tongue removed, husband?” I snap and he smiles, glances down at Miranda then back up at me.

“Katniss, my love. You are going to make the most extraordinary mother.” I blink at him, confused by this turn in the conversation. “You have such love. Such passion in your heart. And the deep instinct to protect all that you care about.”

“What are you getting at?”

“We cannot keep her safe from all danger,” he says, sadness in his eyes. “We will attempt to keep our children safe from as much as we can, and the rest… we can help them to be brave enough to face the rest.”

I swallow and gaze out the window at the passing buildings. Silence reigns in the carriage as I caress Miranda’s hair and Peeta caresses my hand. Eventually, I smile.

“The last time I drove past this block of buildings, I was quite angry with you.”

“Oh?” He asks and I turn my smile on him.

“We were newly betrothed.”

“How horrifying,” he says and I laugh. It seems a lifetime has passed since that day and yet it has not even been a full year.

My fears and worries do not disappear, but they are easier to bear as Peeta shifts us all so that he and I are sitting side by side, Miranda carefully protected between us, our hands joined on her shoulder. I absently rub my middle as Peeta and I converse quietly. Whispered words of the future and plans, mundane communications of everyday life. It is comforting in its own way, yet somehow not enough to keep the fears at bay.

The journey is slow and several days long. At each stop, Miranda clings to us. Her blue eyes dart about and she shrinks into her cloak, making herself as small a figure as possible. I wonder at it, frustrated at her continued silence as it hampers my abilities to alleviate her fears.

It would of course help if, every time we must climb into the carriage, I did not have a brief attack of panic. My heart spasming and my hands shaking until Miranda is safely aboard. Even when we are underway, I startle at every foreign noise outside our conveyance. Unable to sleep or fully relax. At night, I am haunted. My dreams overrun with shattering glass, menacing figures wielding pistols, fiery tombs, the vacant stare of a bloody and violent death lingering in Peeta’s blue eyes, empty starless nights, and the woman from the orphanage silently watching from the shadows. 

I wake with my heart palpitating and my palms damp with sweat, unable to calm myself until I lay my hands upon both my husband and my daughter. It takes long minutes of listening to them breathing to assure myself that they are alive and well before I am able to slip back into slumber.

I am haunted... until we pass through the gates of Everdeen.

Then, at last, I am able to breathe easy and lean over Miranda’s sleeping form to wake her.

“Miranda, my dove. Wake up. We are home.” She lifts her head and looks about, rather sleepily and then scoots away from me to look out of the window. The closer we get, the more relaxed I become. I hear the shouts of greeting before the carriage even stops and the footman is hard pressed to get the carriage door opened before we are inundated by a flurry of green dress and blonde hair.

“Maysilee! Your cloak!” I hear Madge shout.

“Her manners!” Johanna adds and I laugh as Maysilee climbs into my husband’s lap.

“Mister Peeta! Miss Katniss! I thought you’d never get back!”

“Well hello, Maisy Daisy. Have we been absent some time?” Peeta asks and she scowls at him. Then she states quite seriously, as though it is the worst thing in the world:

“Mr. Jo is no good at adventures.”

“What lies is that moppett telling you about me?” Johanna asks.

“At least let them out of the carriage, everyone,” my father’s voice rises up over the din of horses and luggage and excited young girl, amusement in his tone.

Peeta laughs at this and turns in his seat to gesture towards Miranda. “Perhaps Jo is not, but I believe the newest member of our family will be quite good at adventures.”

Maysilee gasps and launches herself across the carriage, oblivious to the way Miranda shrinks back and clutches her cloak around her tiny frame as if it will protect her from Maysilee’s exuberance. I think to intervene, as does Peeta, to keep Miranda from being overwhelmed. Before I can manage, Maysilee has her cornered in an embrace.

“Oh I am so happy you are here! We will be the best of friends! Sisters, really! Mother says I must share with you, but I am ever so excited to do so!”

“Maysilee,” I caution, but she will not hear it and drags a hapless Miranda out of the carriage and into the view of everyone else. In the tussle, her turban is knocked off and a riot of red curls escapes. Peeta attempts to follow her, but the cramped space hampers his movements.

“Oh my!” I hear a few gasps.

“What is it?” Maysilee asks and finally falls silent as Peeta hands me down and she turns to face Miranda. She gasps as well. “You have witch’s hair!”

“Maysilee!” Madge scolds harshly and the girl stutters, then starts crying. 

Miranda yanks the hood of her cloak up and glances around at all the unfamiliar faces, shock and fear evident in her features. She bends down and scoops up the now muddied turban, her lip quivering. I too, glance around at what looks like a welcoming party to me, but to her, it must seem much like a tribunal. The fear is quickly slipping away to make room for that same vacant expression she wore at the orphanage. 

Miranda whirls to escape and collides with Peeta’s legs. He scoops her up and she struggles in his arms, even as he speaks softly to her.

“I didn’t mean to inult!” Maysilee cries.

“Of course not!” My mother soothes her.

Out of the chaos, Prim steps forward and cranes her neck to peer at Miranda’s face, half hidden in Peeta’s coat.

“Miranda? My name is Primrose. I am so happy to meet you. I am Katniss’ sister, which makes me your aunt, so you must call me Aunt Prim. Can you do that?”

Miranda shakes her head violently and I quickly remind Prim that Miranda isn’t speaking. I know I warned her and everyone else of that in a letter home, although the red hair completely escaped my writings.

“No matter. We will get along splendidly, anyways,” Prim says and then smiles with mischief in her eyes. “Do you like kittens, Miranda?” Miranda perks up at this, helped by the fact that Maysilee has stopped crying.

“Come with me to the stables and I have a surprise for you, a welcome home present,” Prim says and extends her arms. Miranda glances up at Peeta for approval.

“Go ahead, if you wish to.” Miranda shifts and slides and Peeta sets her on her feet. Prim takes her hand and I smile at the lack of hesitation this time.

“You too, Maysilee,” Prim says and Madge mouths an apology to me before following with her daughter in her arms.

“Well, that was exciting,” Jo says and my father snorts. “I’ll just see to the horses and make sure that lot doesn’t wreck my stables.”

“ _ My _ stables?” I ask after she departs and now it is my mother who snorts. 

“She has rather taken them over in your absence.”

“Yes, well Jo can be formidable in that way,” Peeta says. “I apologize if he has overstepped.”

“Not in the least. Giles is near retirement anyways and Charles is far too young yet to assume the responsibilities of stable master,” Father remarks as he moves towards me and embraces me. “Jo is a happy addition to Everdeen. And you, are a sight for aging hearts, my dear. Welcome home, Firecracker.”

I sink into his embrace and inhale his familiar, comforting scent.

“The journey was uneventful, I trust?” Mother asks as Peeta offers her his arm and the four of us make our way inside the home.

“Your Miranda…” my father says and I stiffen against his side. “She will be quite a bit of work.”

“She needs us,” I say and his eyes soften.

“Katniss, you cannot continue to take in every stray that wanders across our borders.”

“Miranda hardly wandered here.”

“And the two servants you hired from de Vale? I am not sure I can afford the additional wages, at least not to the level they would expect, coming from the household of a marquis.”

“They were not..being treated well,” I say and look away, unable to account for my actions taking them in.

“Will you then throw funds at every person not being treated well? You’ll have nothing left to feed yourselves. And with a child on the way--”

“In a way it was my fault they were treated so poorly, Papa. I couldn’t leave them in misery!”

“Admirable as that may be, I am concerned. Two new servants, one injured, a coach destroyed and the horses only barely recovered. You were fortunate they were safely returned and not stolen on the return journey to Everdeen.” I purse my lips and look away. I’d forgotten completely about the horses and the funds we were forced to use to stable them until someone from Everdeen could retrieve them. My guilt only increases with every word Father speaks. 

“As it is, we are now short a carriage. I will have to replace it. With three additional mouths to feed and another on the way.” I attempt to protest, to justify my actions, but he continues before I can utter a word. “I am only concerned because when I die--”

“Papa!”

“It will happen, Katniss. We cannot ignore the certainty of it. I will die some day, and when I do, I want you and your mother and your sister to be prepared, taken care of. I worry less about you now that you have Peeta, but… the more people whom you feel responsible for, the greater burden you will have to shoulder when the inevitable happens. There is a chance, should your child be a boy. I could name him my heir and leave Everdeen to you and Peeta in trust for him, but if the child is a girl...”

“Are you planning on dying soon, Father?” I ask cruelly, upset at the reminders that my daughter will be no better looked upon in terms of inheritance than I have been. He gives me a wistful smile, as though reading my thoughts as clearly as printed words on a page.

“Hardly, my dear. But neither was I planning on falling off my horse last winter.” I glance down at the ground in shame as we ascend the stairs behind my mother and Peeta, deep in confidence with one another about something. Mother is nodding and her face softening into a fond smile.

“I am still attempting to arrange things to see to your needs, in case there is no son in your future. To that end, I have asked Mr. Gale Hawthorne to visit at his earliest convenience. Your husband and Uncle Haymitch have come up with a plan… an idea… a possibility at least, and I am eager to see if it would work. The roads are treacherous now, so I would not expect him before spring, as he planned previously, however, we must be prepared for short notice visits and…” His eyes dart towards the windows, and I follow, just able to make out the stables.

“And we have a strange, growing menagerie of lost souls at Everdeen.”

“Which may or may not cause difficulties with Mr. Hawthorne. He may find something to take offense at and be eager to see Everdeen rid of us.”

“Then we must hope for now that Mr. Hawthorne is a man of great compassion,” I say, although my heart feels far too heavy for hope.

“We shall. In the meantime, I would appreciate it if you would consult with me before you and your husband take in anymore strays. Your sister has managed to adopt another cat in your absence and well…” he sighs and I cannot help but laugh at his beleaguered expression. “The damn thing has had kittens!”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Kittens. I watch as Miranda scurries from the bed to check the small box beneath, arrange the straw bedding and pet behind the ears of the tiny black kitten within.

“Up you go,” I say and smile as she takes one more moment to check the cat before climbing in bed. I am almost certain that morning will find Miranda with the kitten curled up beside her. Already the rag doll has been resigned to the box as bedding for the cat.

“Mama, one more kiss,” Maysilee says and Madge gives me a knowing smile as she presents the tiny, caramel colored kitten that Maysilee chose for herself. “Good night, Mud.”

She kisses the kitten and Madge places the thing back in its box as Maysilee wriggles deeper into the covers. She seems thrilled to be sharing the large bed with her new sister and I bend over to give both girls quick, loud kisses and receive giggles and smiles for the silly gestures.

Then I perch on the edge of the bed and smooth back some of Miranda’s wild red hair, already making an escape from the braid she demanded I give her tonight, although at least she did not request her turban for bedtime.

“Do you remember where Peeta and I will be tonight?” She nods and grasps at the covers, pulling them up to her chin. “Come find us if you need anything, alright?” I smile as she nods again and bend down to give her another kiss. A soft knock alerts me to Peeta’s presence in the door and I sit up to welcome him.

“Are there any girls wishing a bedtime story?” he asks and Maysilee claps with glee at this new development in our strange family arrangement. Madge and I settle near the fireplace, her to work on some needlepoint and me to pretend that I am reading my book as Peeta sits at the foot of their bed and begins to weave a fantastical story of a witch and a princess locked in a tower. Miranda’s eyes grow wide as he continues the story and Maysilee interjects with frequent questions. I give up on my book and rest my chin in my hand, listening shamelessly as I learn of yet another talent my husband has been hiding.

The girls listen, enraptured by the tale of doom and disaster, the many narrow escapes of the princess, the assumptions of the village that the witch must be behind the mischief. They squeal when Peeta reveals the true villain in the land was not in fact the witch, but the cruel queen of a neighboring kingdom who would see both the princess and the witch hurt.

“And so the princess’ secret protector revealed herself, striking down the evil queen with a mighty spell! And who do you think it was?” Peeta asks.

“The witch!” Maysilee exclaims around a massive yawn. I smile and duck my head as he taps her on the nose.

“Quite right, Maisy Daisy. The two were secretly sisters. Are you certain you’ve not heard this story before?” Maysilee giggles and Peeta continues, although my attention is now drawn to Miranda and her wide, glassy blue eyes. Something heavy in them, even as they droop. 

I cannot place my finger on it until the girls have each been given another round of good night kisses and the adults have crept quietly from the room. I still cannot say a word of it as I am quickly caught up in sharing the tales of our trip and receiving the news of Everdeen over sherry and quiet firelight. It is not until Peeta and I are safely tucked in our room that I finally broach the subject.

“Are we certain it is wise to continue this comparison of Miranda to a witch?” I ask as Peeta works his cravat loose. On top of all else that has happened, Jeffries the valet from de Vale has come down ill and is currently confined to his bed. No matter. I feel far less guilt watching Peeta disrobe himself with no witnesses. “Those drawings she made of herself burning at the stake…” I shudder and shut the book I was attempting to read, conceding defeat on finishing the chapter.

“You think it unwise?”

“Why do you not?” I ask and he sighs for a moment before sitting on the sofa beside me.

“Do you know how often the word ‘bastard’ has been used as an insult against me?” I flush with great heat, knowing that I myself have flung that insult at him on multiple occasions. “Or ‘cripple.’ At some point, it began to lose its sting. I don’t recall when or even how. Sometimes I fool myself into thinking that I simply decided to no longer let it hurt me and that was that. The truth was likely far more messy. I spent a great many years in anger over who I was, who the world saw and expected me to be, but it was pointless. Such anger, over something I could not control.”

“What has this to do with Miranda?” I ask testily and he lifts my hand from the folds of my skirt to bring it to his lips.

“There are people in this world who will judge her and assume things based solely on the colour of her hair. I witnessed it with my mother, and you yourself saw it at the orphanage, with that young girl at the masquerade, the one with red hair and lips. This afternoon, even.”

“What can we do about it?” I ask, suddenly understanding the vein of his thinking. “Make her think herself a _ good _ witch?”

“For a start. Teach her to smirk when someone calls her that. Stand taller and know that they do so out of ignorance. Help her find confidence in who she is.”

“By allowing her to raise a black cat?”

“With kindness and love,” he asserts and I catch on to the plan.

“Or telling her bedtime stories where the witch is not the villain, but one of the heroes.”

“It is possible, to teach her that people are not always what they seem at first brush, without frightening her or conditioning her to forever cut herself off from the world. Also by allowing Maysilee’s fascination with the fantastic and magical to seep into her life and let her know that not everyone is afraid of witch’s hair.”

“And my mother,” I accuse with narrow eyes. “I somehow sense that you’ve already enlisted her help in this as well.”

“Tomorrow, as you and I already agreed, Miranda begins lessons, something she’s never truly had to do at the orphanage. Reading, writing, mathematics, music and drawing, although she already excels at that, and… the fine art of herbalism and healing beside her adopted grandmother. She’ll be concocting her own witch’s brews within a fortnight.”

“You devious, brilliant bastard,” I say and he laughs as I pull him towards me, kissing his laughter right off his lips.

I meant only to claim a swift kiss, to solidify in his mind that I do not use the word as an insult at all, and yet… I am quickly lost in the heat of his mouth on mine, in the possessive pull of his hands on my hips, turning me so that he might kiss me better, more deeply.

My book slides from my lap and lands on the carpet with a dull thud. I slide my hands down his chest and hurriedly undo the row of buttons on his waistcoat. Once the garment is discarded, Peeta pulls me closer, onto his lap with my skirts tangled about my legs as I straddle him. As I move over him, I yank his shirt free and splay my hands over his heated skin beneath. He groans and thrusts one hand into my hair, tilting my head so that he might kiss me more deeply. The flames of desire quickly lick over me, tickling awake the feelings I have been required to tamp down this past week, with Miranda sleeping in the same room.

But now…

“Oh,” I sigh as his mouth shifts across my cheek to my ear where he nibbles as though I am a delectable treat. Then harsh suction just below the lobe has me gripping tight to his shoulders. “Oh!  _ Peeta!  _ The bed...now.”

He loops his arms about me and stands, walking swiftly across the room as I return the heated kisses to his neck. I am dropped on the bed and then flipped over, my feet on the floor and my body on the mattress as his hands make quick work of my dress and then loosen my stays. I whimper, begging him to hurry as fabric continues to leave my body. Peeta sweeps aside my hair and lays atop me, his lips kissing and sucking, branding his love for me into the back of my neck. I can feel the hard proof of his arousal against my backside, even through the layers of clothing still separating us.

With a mighty pull, he tears my corset free and I exhale as he throws it across the room, leaving me in naught but my chemise, stockings, and garters. 

“There, see? Efficient,” I gasp as Peeta stands and flips me once more so that I am sitting perched on the edge of the bed. I reach out to caress his chest, a narrow bare strip revealed to me through his gaping shirt. After a few minutes of the touch, he takes my hand in his, kisses it and then carefully lowers himself to the floor before me, his broad hands caressing my body over the soft fabric of my chemise, all the way to my ankles and then…

My lips part on a sigh as much like a few nights ago, he caresses back up my legs, only this time with the hem of my chemise caught on his thumbs, lifting the garment and exposing my stockings to the heat of both the fire behind him and his gaze.

His skin and hair glow in the firelight and I admire my husband as he bends his head to kiss over my stockings. His breath through the silk fibers soon has me arching, spreading my knees wide, silently begging for him. The playful glint in his eyes as he glances up at me and continues kissing me tells me that he knows precisely what he is doing, the dratted man.

Wonderful, dratted man, I think as his lips skim along the tops of my garters, the kiss split between silk and skin.

“Please,” I whisper, scarcely able to say what it is that I desire.

“If you would hold this, my love,” he whispers and I take the fabric from him, inhaling sharply as he bends forward and, watching my expressions the entire time, kisses my thighs. Slow and painstaking and oh so delicious. Then he captures the end of one garter in his teeth. He takes an eternity pulling back, the ribbon unravelling and falling free from my leg.

I am a quivering pack of nerves, my chest heaving for air and my hands aching with their grip on my chemise. Peeta carefully sets aside the garter before rolling my stocking down my leg.

He does so slowly. Slowly enough that I nearly scream with impatience.

“Am I being efficient now, love?” he whispers to the side of my knee and I groan, unable to watch as his lips follow the garter down my leg. When it is finally free of my toes and set aside, I can wait no longer. I grasp his shirt and tear it from his body. I’m given no chance, none at all to claim what I desire, as Peeta lifts my thighs, throwing me off balance. My hands slap onto the coverlet and my fingers clench as he nuzzles into my folds, holds my legs aloft so that I am spread for him, immodest and wanton, unable to so much as move without disrupting his loving. He has me at his mercy.

I attempt to muffle my desire, but cannot. It feels far too good to contain and I am lost within moments, begging him without shame, gripping his hair with one hand and thrusting my hips up into his mouth.

It feels as though I am falling apart and coming together at once. My arm buckles beneath me and I fall back on the bed, overcome and overwhelmed.

“I love you,” I manage to gasp out as he stands and watches me recover, his hands busy removing his pants and then his false leg. 

“And I you, Katniss. More than anything.” He climbs onto the bed, arms braced on either side of my head as he finds purchase with one knee and one truncated leg. I bring him down to me, to kiss him. To taste my own pleasure on his lips. Wanton and shameless as he caresses my side, my breast, down between my still quivering thighs.

“Then love me,” I demand. His hand leaves me and I sigh as I feel the tip of him brushing through my folds, back and forth. Like a paint brush spreading the sky across the canvas. I attempt to lift my hips into his, to take him into me, but have no success.

He laughs softly against my lips. “Is there something you desire, wife of mine?”

“You are cruel, husband,” I chastise, although my hands grasping at him and my lips along his jaw would suggest otherwise. “You know what I want.”

“No, Katniss. Not cruel. Strategic. Devious. Madly in love with you and in a constant state of desire for you. A constant state of needing to hear your moans of pleasure and know that I am the cause of them.” He rises up slightly and stares down at me, grinning as the tip of him just enters me. Only the tip. Then his hand is on my hip, holding me down. Immobile.

“Damn you, Peeta!” I mutter to no avail. He rocks his hips, an infinitesimal motion that teases me, dangling what I want as bait. “You know what I want!”

“Then say it, my love. Say it and it shall be yours.”

He hasn’t enough hands to truly subdue me like this. I barely manage to hide my smirk as I grasp his buttocks and instead of thrusting up, pull him down into me. A string of profanity leaves his lips as we’re finally brought together and I smile triumphantly up into his lust hazed eyes.

“I want you, Peeta. Inside me. I want the seed of your love,” I whisper against his lips. 

“You already have that,” he teases and I shake my head.

“I want you anyways.”

He groans and then releases my hip to caress my thigh, to hold it tighter about his hips as he begins to move in earnest.

“Hold me close, darling. This may be a little desperate and hasty.”

“I like it when you are desperate...for me,” I say and embrace him with my legs. He rocks his body against mine in gentle thrusts at first, our gazes as joined as our flesh. I attempt to muffle my desire, but Peeta’s thrusts do quickly turn desperate. And deep… and I am unable to stifle the sounds he plucks from my chest with each rejoining of our bodies. A hand slides over my leg and he lifts it, until my knee rests on my own shoulder, opening my body as I nearly scream at the pleasure the shift causes. I claw at his chest then his back as he holds my leg aloft, his fingers slipping on the silk stocking and his eyes burning with love. I clench my bare leg about him as my crest arrives and I am overcome.

“Yes. Yes, my love. Come again for me.  _ Katniss! _ ” He groans with his release and rotates his hips, pressing me deep into the bed, my entire body shaking with the waves of it.

When the feelings of bliss pass, leaving me limp and satisfied, I become aware of his lips on my ankle. His fingers caressing as he shifts us, separates our bodies and then adjusts our position in bed.

He manages to deal with the fire and candles, and I think don some sort of shirt for sleep before collapsing beside me and pulling me close. It is only as my leg drags through the covers that I realise I am still wearing one stocking. I lift my tired leg and tease his with my silk covered toes.

“You seem to have forgotten something, husband.” His hand caresses over my leg and I squeal as he pulls me flush against him so that my leg is once more embracing him, my toes now caressing the back of his knee.

“I did not, wife,” he murmurs with a lazy grin. It sends the frissons of desire through me, implanting this memory firmly in my mind. It would not surprise me if some day soon, I find on my pillow a drawing of myself with only one stocking. Dratted, wonderful man.

  
  


~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The screams wake me and I fly upright with a gasp on my lips. Peeta is up and tearing across the room before I can even register the direction of the sound, but I am quick to follow him, dragging a dressing robe onto my body as I go.

“What is it?” Madge and I nearly collide in the hall outside the room our daughters now share, the door already flung wide. We grasp onto one another for support as we step through the doors and Madge averts her eyes with a gasp at the sight that greets us.

“Oh for heaven’s sake, Madge. Now is not the time for modesty,” I say and drag her across the room, nearly flinging her towards the wall where Maysilee stands, holding Mud the kitten and crying as she stares aghast at Miranda. Miranda sitting in Peeta’s embrace and sobbing.

He soothes over her hair, his voice calm and gentle, at such odds with the expression of agony on his face and his state of undress. Near enough to nude to shock even a widow. His shirt gapes open, revealing his throat, one shoulder, and the better part of his left side. His scars. 

I pick up his cane, which he must have dropped on the floor near the bed and set it to rest near his hand before joining them on the bed. The wordless sobs continue, even as Peeta pleads with her to tell us what frightened her so.

Maysilee spills explanations to Madge, but none of them are helpful. She woke to the screaming as well.

“Do you wish to sleep with Katniss and I tonight? At least until the new room becomes familiar?” Peeta asks and Miranda nods. Our eyes meet over her head and we share a deep look. I feel as though we speak a thousand words in such a look, an understanding that transcends words. I cannot help but wonder if Peeta woke screaming or frightened or confused those first nights he spent under the Marquis’ roof, and if he did… did anyone respond to his cries?

I reach for her, gathering Miranda in my arms as Peeta retrieves his cane and uses it as a second leg. I manage an apology to Madge, who brushes my concern aside, insisting that Miranda’s well being is paramount. 

We are an odd parade down the hall back to our room, and it is several hours before Miranda is able to sleep again, tucked in between our bodies.


	29. Chapter 29

In the morning, I wake feeling sore, still tired as I stretch, my fingers brushing Peeta’s warmth. I sigh and roll into him, sliding my arm around him to hold him close and resting my face on his back, nose between his shoulder blades. I drift for a few more minutes, until Peeta lifts a hand to twine with mine over his belly and I can feel the small fluctuations in his body that precede his waking.

It is a stark waking as I fly up in sudden terror.

“Miranda?” I ask and Peeta flips to face me, sleep gone from his eyes in an instant as I stumble from the bed and begin searching the room. “Miranda?”

Mary knocks and enters at my command, watching my search for a moment before clearing her throat.

“Mrs. Mellark… she is already dressed and downstairs.”

“Downstairs?” Peeta asks, half dressed and pulling his boots on, clearly thinking more practical as I nearly tore apart our room. Mary quickly assists me dress and then together, Peeta and I venture downstairs.

We find her in the laundry house, dressed in a clearly borrowed or pilfered dress, the fabric worn and a dull shade of brown. The sleeves are not long enough to cover her wrists and the hem hovers a good couple of inches above her ankles as she labors. Washing clothes. The air is thick and warm with steam, a cheerful fire warming a basin of water. Beside her, Lavinia explains in hand gestures how the washing is to be done. Miranda nods in understanding. She lifts her drenched, soapy hands from the water, my silk stocking dangling from her red, raw fingers.

“Miranda?” I ask and she startles, dropping her hands hastily into the water, once more submerging the stockings. Peeta stifles a laugh and I scowl at him. He gives me an indulgent smile and then slides his coat from his shoulders. Her eyes are round and frightened as he approaches her, rolling back the sleeves of his shirt. 

“Ladies. If you’ve decided that the washing must be done before breakfast, then do let me assist. I apologise if the cleanliness of Katniss’ and my clothing has offended you.”

She shakes her head and I bite back the tart words that clearly she didn’t really think—

Peeta thrusts a hand into the water and comes back up with his small clothes. 

“Ah. I did wonder where these had wandered off to this morning.” Mary stifles another laugh behind me and Miranda’s face burns bright red. Lavinia shakes her head, but the twitches in her lips are a clear sign that she is attempting to hold back a smile.

“Do stop teasing her.” I know I sound waspish but my ire is piqued. Peeta smiles at me, then bends low to speak to Miranda. I have to step closer to hear his words.

“Did you know that I too, was adopted in a way?” She gazes up at him and shakes her head. “I was. My mother was a ladies’ maid. I had been raised by her and her husband, a baker. After he passed and she lost her post, she could not afford my care. We were quite poor and desperate, and so she deposited me with my birth father and demanded he take responsibility. He was the one with the money and the fancy title. I was used to a much more humble life.

“For the first month I lived with him, I was furious with my mother for leaving me and desperate to do whatever it took for him to keep me. You see, he was not thrilled to have me, not in the least, not the way Katniss and I are thrilled to have you be a part of our family…” He lets those words sink in a moment before he begins to scrub. “For weeks, I woke early and baked bread with the cooks, watching the trays disappear upstairs for breakfast, and hoping that it would be enough to earn my keep. When I saw no signs that it would be, I began to assist the gardner. Even the scullery maids. I was found cleaning a fireplace and rather making a mess of it one day.”

My heart cracks as understanding spreads through me, even as I watch it dawn on Miranda’s face. Even Lavinia and Mary have a new sort of understanding spreading across their faces.

“You have begun this task, and I will finish it with you, but know this, Miranda… each of us has tasks to complete here at Everdeen, work to be done, but we brought you here first and foremost to be a part of our family. You must remember that we chose you. We came looking for you, and you alone will always be enough for us to love, regardless of how hard you work or which chores you take on. Do you understand?”

Miranda nods and then I watch, astonished as Lavinia hands soap to Peeta. Soon the trio is absorbed in the washing and I slip from the room to see about breakfast and other household matters, to ensure that the food will remain warm when my husband and Miranda finally make it to table.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The days proceed, cold outside the walls of the manor and yet cozy within. We begin to form a pattern of living with one another. After that first night, once I have reassured myself that Maysilee did not inadvertently cause Miranda’s night terrors, I ask if she would like to rejoin her bed fellow or remain with Peeta and I.

I ask every night, until she indicates that she wishes to sleep once more with Maysilee. Although there are still nights when she wakes half the household with her screams, when Peeta or I race down the hall to her in a state of undress, the night terrors slowly recede.

Her lessons are stuttered and fitful at first, as we quickly realise her knowledge of letters and numbers is not much more advanced than Maysilee’s. They become school room companions and seem to become friends as well, often found playing with one another, the air around them filled with Maysilee’s chatter and girlish giggles as she compensates for Miranda’s silence.

“Maysilee, darling, Miranda will never speak for herself if you constantly speak for her,” Madge admonishes one morning. Maysilee remains undeterred.

“You said we were to make her feel welcome!”

“Yes, but…” Madge trails off as she glances at me and I shrug. “Oh very well, darling. Just be prepared to take turns speaking at any moment, alright?”

My mother takes to Miranda in minutes, and Miranda is often found trailing either her or my sister, tugging on their skirts and asking silent questions of the herbal remedies prescribed. There are many days when I find her in the kitchen, standing on a stool and bent over a steaming bowl, her red curls struggling to escape her blue turban as the clouds of vapor curl around her and my mother speaks of their herbal concoctions as though they are indeed witches’ potions. I even spy them wriggling their fingers over the pots and releasing spine tingling cackles, much to the superstitious horror of some of the staff.

After a few stuttered attempts, my father sits in conference with both Peeta and I, that we might set out guidelines for the financial handling of our household since it seems to be continuously growing. Father turns nearly green in the face with shock when we reveal just how much Peeta’s inheritance upon marrying me amounted to. 

After we’ve ironed the wrinkles in finance and household management, I linger and send Peeta along when I see that my father is still in shock. He leans over the mantle, staring into the fire and gouging the floor with one booted toe.

“Papa?” I ask and he startles, looking up at me with pained eyes. I huff in aggravation. “It is not a disaster, Papa. All turned out well.”

“I might as well have sold you to the highest bidder.”

“You think me worth so little?” I ask and he snorts then stares back into the flames.

“To me your worth is far beyond any earthly riches. I will recover from the shock, Firecracker, if only because I know that you are right. The love between you is… obvious and everything I could have hoped for you. I can see, when he looks at you, that he thinks the same. No amount of coin could equal how he loves and values you.”

I leave him after that. To find my husband and steal a kiss. There are no more comments about the number of strays in our house. No hesitation when the winter gifts to tenants are distributed. As loathe as I am to depend on anything from the Marquis de Vale, there is no denying that what he settled on Peeta makes our lives infinitely less complicated.

There are days when Madge frets that Maysilee is inserting herself into Miranda’s life as a friend Miranda may not want. The thought had never crossed my mind before then, and I too begin to worry. Until Maysilee falls down the stairs one bitterly cold afternoon, wailing in pain as her hands are burnt on the carpets. 

I do not witness the incident, only hearing Maysilee’s cries when Miranda guides the girl to me and gently presents the injury for repair. We work silently, Miranda showing me what she has learned as I leave it mostly to her, only guiding when needed. And then...with Maysilee’s hands soothed with balm and protected with bandages, Miranda kisses her palms and wipes her tears, linking their arms before guiding Maysilee back out of the room.

I am left in astonishment and joy, hurrying to find Peeta and then Madge to inform them of the development.

It is not all perfect. There are still days when Miranda’s actions are clearly a need to feel as though she is irreplaceable. Peeta does catch her cleaning a fireplace one day, covered in soot and handed off to me for a bath. Still another day when one of the maids finds a hoard of food already gone stale in her room. It takes some minutes for us to ascertain the reason.

A stash in case she needed to leave us for one reason or another.

There are days when she explodes in a fit of temper, as though testing us to see if we will send her away. We do not.

The heavy snows arrive and we are mostly confined to the cozy halls of Everdeen, although I cannot complain much. Miranda is studious in her lessons and eager to fit into our family. The black cat has become her constant companion, often perching on her shoulders as she moves through the house or sits at her studies. Miranda and Maysilee begin to make plans for their shared room. Decorations and improvements, Miranda sketching out as much of their ideas as she can manage. Work begins on a painted mural. Peeta and Miranda paint the walls while Maysilee supervises the work.

There is another room in the house with mirrored work being accomplished. A nursery for a baby. Perhaps more than one child, I think fondly as I run one hand over my barely curved abdomen and check on the work. 

Christmas arrives with all the warmth and gaiety of the yuletide. Father enlists Peeta’s help in selecting the yule log. Gifts are exchanged. Kisses beneath mistletoe steal my breath and lead to kisses that need no tradition to spark them. I cannot seem to stop kissing my husband and it somehow renews my hopes for the coming year as Peeta smiles down at me after, his fingers caressing promises into my skin, his words reaffirming the love I see in his eyes every day, feel in his actions, hear in each beat of his heart beneath my ear as we sleep entwined for both comfort and warmth.

Day by day, Miranda’s comfort and affection grow as I eagerly await the day she finally speaks. Maysilee often offers opinions of the linens and clothing I begin to work on for the babe who will arrive in the summer. Her excitement over having another child in the house is rather contagious.

I do not wish, however to raise her hopes too high as Madge begins to speak of perhaps leaving. Of no longer being a burden to us. I am surprised when it is my father who insists that she stay, my father who suggests building an extension to house the growing number of bodies at Everdeen.

There are many days when Peeta dresses warmly and spends the hours of light out and about the local area with Dr. Aurelius or with my mother and Miranda. In that way, he receives a dual education on healing.

My father and I make plans for spring planting, even as the storms of winter howl outside.

The New Year arrives with bitter frost and evenings spent checking the windows for the lantern that signals Peeta’s returns from his rounds with Dr. Aurelius. I worry that he might slip on ice or be lost somewhere. He has shown himself to be reckless and careless with his own person in the past. 

Then one day, as I sit and stitch a simple dress for my babe, I feel it. The slightest flutter just beneath my ribs. I cannot be certain and seek out my mother, who gives me a soft smile of understanding and caresses my cheek.

I had thought...that the first motions of the babe would fill me with love, and they do. Yet, with that love comes a terror that feels old as time itself. Miranda is still not speaking. One day, my father will die and Everdeen will be entailed right out from under my feet. I have no assurances that I can provide the sort of future for our child that I wish to. So much could go wrong and it begins to haunt me.

“We could repair Willow Park,” Madge suggests one evening as I pace her room, worried for the future. “It would cost a fortune but…”

“With what funds?” I snap, rather unfairly and she glances back down at her embroidery work. Work she attends to for me. 

I excel at the simple creation of the garment but haven’t the patience nor the creativity to sit and garnish the clothes for my own child with the sort of beautiful decorations Madge is now adding to them.

“I only meant...Madge I am sorry. I only meant that you may own the land yes, but at what terrible cost?”

“It was not such a terrible cost.” I snort and she sighs. 

It is not fair of me, to dredge up such ugly facets of history. There were no male heirs for her family seat, not even so much as a distant cousin. The Undersee line was dying anyways and so Madge’s father used his considerable fortune to alter the future of his estate. To leave the house and the land to Madge. It can be done, of course, but the sum it requires is so formidable that few ever manage it without driving themselves and their families into irreconcilable debt. It has never been an option for my family, but for Mr. Undersee with his much older and deeper family coffers…

In the end, it still was not quite enough. He was left in dire financial straights, although not utterly hopeless. There were still options. And so, Madge was swiftly launched into society, a land heiress with great beauty and rumors of financial ruin yet no proof of it. The Undersee family had managed, scrabbling along for two years and concealing from everyone the status of his finances. He betrothed his daughter to the Earl Hargrove, Ferguson Charmaigne, and then…

And then before the wedding could take place, a bad year of crops left him in such debt...the best course he saw was to take his own life and set Madge on her path to financial recovery, through her marriage and immediate inheritance of the land. Only, his death made the situation worse. Something broke in his widow and Lady Undersee set the house ablaze… the fire that scarred me and nearly killed my sister and my dearest friend in the bargain…

I stop my pacing as the chill takes over me at the soft, determined tone of her voice.

“There are many things I regret. The loss of my parents and my innocence. The years I had to devote to the earl. The loss of you for so many years, but then… I would not have Maysilee. You might not have Peeta. Who would be Miranda’s friend? And I would not have…” she trails off and sighs again. I stare at her and wait for her to continue. “It is  _ my _ hunk of ruined house and land. You know this. You know I’ve no money of my own to do a thing with it, but you do. I know it is a great deal to ask of you and highly unorthodox, but you and Peeta have already…the past year...”

“What are you asking, Madge?”

All further discussion is cut off by Maysilee’s excited squeal.

“They are back!” I move to the window and look out into the gloom of the evening to watch as Peeta hands Miranda down from where she rides in front of him on Cicero whenever she accompanies him and the good doctor, as she did today.

When I meet them in the hall, Miranda hugs me about my knees and Peeta kisses me, his lips cool behind my ear and the touch of his hand over my belly a soothing caress.

“Good evening, wife,” he murmurs and I cannot stop the silly smile taking over my face.

I spend the rest of the evening fussing over both my husband and my daughter and am unable to return to my discussion with Madge.

Weeks pass and the thaws arrive. Large puddles of brown mud begin to appear in the thinning blanket of snow and the constant sound of rushing water fills the air. Then soft green shoots as we dress warm to take to the fields, churning earth beneath plows to prepare for the spring planting. Preparations also begin in earnest for the return of Rory Hawthorne and a visit from Mr. Gale Hawthorne.

I begin to show, my belly softly rounding outward, and Peeta’s desire for me seems to increase with my expanding waistline. Although he rarely seeks a full coupling of our bodies anymore, seeming content to pleasure me with his lips, his hands, and with whispered words. His penchant to fulfill my desires and allow his to fester worries me at first, as I fear that either he no longer finds me attractive — rubbish as indicated by his frequent arousal in my presence and the delight with which he loves me — or that he does so out of a feeling of obligation or desire to make himself irreplaceable — also utter rubbish as there are a thousand reasons he is already irreplaceable in my heart and my life. 

It is a peculiarity I do not understand until one evening as I sit pretending to read while he regales the girls with the latest adventures of the sister princess and witch. While Peeta has told them many a story during the cold winter months, these two characters make frequent reappearances and are the most requested stories. 

After he has finished the story, Peeta bends to wish Miranda sweet dreams, only tonight, she holds him to her and then kisses his cheek along his scars. It strikes me then that my husband is… a most extraordinary father. And I find that knowledge unbearably arousing. 

So much that despite the added weight on my body, I am the aggressor in our bed that night. I am the one biting at his chest and tearing the clothes from his body, pushing him down onto our mattress then rising up over him in a frenzy. I am the one sweating and thrashing, teeth clenched in determination and refusing to relent until Peeta sings his release to the ceiling. And it is this, the deep echo of his moans from behind his ribs, layered with the symphony of breath in his throat, a near whine in his nose, and the bruising clutch of his fingers on my body, the exquisite expression of stunned or pained relief on his face, the flush of the effort to wait for me spread across his naked form that sends me tumbling after him.

It is only then, as we lay tangled together, his fingers dancing a sensual pattern over the stretched skin of my belly and a content sigh on his lips that it occurs to me that perhaps he finds the thought of me as a mother unbearably arousing as well. 

As Sae and I sit knitting socks and hats for the babe one morn, Peeta stops in to inform me that he is off to see a patient with Dr. Aurelius.

“Broken leg, caused by a wagon accident. I may be late,” he says as I tilt my head back to receive his kiss on my cheek, perhaps a little too close to my mouth to be seemly, but what do I care for such ridiculous propriety. “My apologies to Mrs. Chilton for the extra efforts with dinner.”

“She will not mind keeping your dinner warm, my love.” I murmur and then whisper to him that I shall be happy to help him warm up when he returns.

As he leaves, Sae remarks to me with a satisfied smirk on her face, “We best be making extra of these, as I sense the next babe will be close on the heels of the first.”

I blush and wonder if she knows that my mind has been wandering about the bedroom with Peeta or if she heard what I whispered to him. It is not my fault. He should not be so damn attractive if he did not want to fulfill all my considerable desires for him…

“Whatever do you mean?” I ask as innocently as possible.

Sae chuckles and shakes out her work to review the stitching. “Only stating the obvious, my girl.”

I knit and stitch and read. Miranda begins to join me in the library, climbing onto the sofa beside me and pointing to passages in my book until I read aloud to her, my finger tracing a path of words beneath the print so that she might hear and see the words at the same time. 

Peeta draws and bakes and studies his medical texts until some nights I have to chase him down and remind him that he should sleep upstairs, with his leg removed for comfort and his wife’s body curled up close to his. He smiles whenever I cajole him thus and answers with a simple, “How could I possibly deny myself such a temptation,” before lifting me into his arms and carrying me upstairs as though we are newly married every night.

I worry over Miranda’s continued silence. Peeta does as well. There are nights when we sit before the fire in our room, discussing the days events, and I can plainly see that he is distracted, his brow furrowed and his eyes intense, yet not in the way they are when he draws or bakes or in those moments right before he kisses me. Those are a pleasant sort of intense. These are not.

Most times, when his face takes on that distracted intensity and his words are more halting, all it takes is my fingers twisting a lock of curls and a soft kiss to bring him back to me. To bring forth the bright smile that I love and the reassurances that all will work out. Sometimes, though, I wonder if he truly means it.

I begin to ask Miranda more questions that are not easily answered with a simple shake or nod of the head in an attempt to surprise her into providing a verbal answer. Peeta notices my tactic and begins to use it as well. While there are no immediate results, we continue hopefully.

Peeta continues to draw for me, a growing record of our life and love and family all bound between the leather covers of the book I keep always beside the bed. As the days once more lengthen, he makes use of my Christmas gift for him and begins to paint on canvas again, granted the added light of spring.

Together, we spin fantastical stories for the girls. We lead games and amusements whenever we can. One day, Miranda points to the scars on Peeta’s face as they settle in for bed, after Peeta has given their nightly story. 

“You wish to know how I came by them?” She nods and he plucks at the coverlet, thinking a moment before answering. “I worry this may not be an appropriate tale for bedtime,” he explains with a look at Madge across the room.

“She should know the truth,” Madge says. “Maysilee as well. They are ready to hear it.”

“I will attempt to tell it in a way that encourages bravery, rather than fear,” Peeta nods and resolute, begins the story. Although he simplifies it a bit, the tale is understood, as evidenced by Miranda standing in bed and taking his face in her palms before kissing his scars.

“Thank you, darling. All better now,” he murmurs. She opens her mouth as though to say something and then hides beneath the covers.

“What about Miss Katniss?” Maysilee asks sleepily. How did Miss Katniss get her Courage Kisses?”

“That is for her to tell,” Peeta answers and Madge clears her throat. “Or your mother.”

“Oh yes, Mama! Tell us how Miss Katniss saved your life!”

Madge looks to me for approval and when I grant it, she quietly shares the story. Miranda eventually peels back the covers enough to watch me through the whole story.

There are no screams that night.

Something changes in the air the following days. I cannot place my finger on it, perhaps it is the arrival of spring. For the first three days after Peeta and Madge tell the girls about the source of our burn scars, it rains. Nothing but rain for three days until the entire household is anxious and restless.

The approaching planting season is a promise of new life, and yet the rains are a reminder to me of where we were but a year ago. Peeta is overly attentive and sweet. Massaging my back and legs every night, baking my favorite treats in his spare time. I find untold amounts of joy in the simplest of things, a lazy day sitting upon a settee with my fingers combing through Miranda’s fiery hair, mussing up the careful yellow ribbons she begins to wear instead of the blue turban. Peeta’s head in my lap as I read and they listen. Evenings spet after Miranda’s bath, rubbing oils into her curls and working them into softness if not submission. Moments in the dark when Peeta’s hands span my belly and we wait together to feel the movement of our child.

Our child. The thought still fills me terror and yet, when he looks up at me with that bright blue delight in his eyes with each push of growing infant hand against his...in those moments, I truly begin to believe that we will be alright. No matter the obstacles thrown our way, he and I can find a way to overcome, to make this world a home for those who depend on us.

Then one day, after an entire three days of nothing but frigid rain, spring begins in earnest. Warmth arrives almost overnight, and the girls escape to the gardens to play. I watch as a new light sparks to life in Miranda’s eyes and refrain from scolding her over the mud that quickly cakes her dress, and Maysilee’s as well. They play, rushing from one flower bed to the next and examining the new growth, the slowly sprouting greens and the delicate buds waiting to bloom.

“Oh, it will be so lovely once they bloom!”

I am distracted by my letters, tapping my pen on the small table of the verandah where I have chosen to enjoy the day, the sound of children playing a pleasant background sound as I work. Eventually, I lose track of time, and I am quite occupied in framing my response to Mr. Gale Hawthorne’s questions about his and his brother’s upcoming visit to Everdeen when a scream splits the sky, earth shattering and terrible.

I am on my feet in an instant, searching out the source of the disturbance. Miranda kneels in the mud, the tattered pieces of her rag doll cradled in shaking, muddy hands. Maysilee screeches at a young boy I recognize as one of the Father Crane’s sons.

“It’s just a stupid doll,” he insists and Maysille throws a great clod of mud at him. I hurry towards them, carefully picking my way over the paths that are sorely in need of some maintenance, attempting to not slip with my cumbersome pregnant form making balance a real trick.

Before I can reach them, Miranda stands and with a great sniff, pushes back the wild mass of her red hair and points at the boy.

“Toads legs and lizards heart, I curse you to be blown apart!”

The boy stares at her agog and then scrambles from the garden.

“Oh Miranda, we can fix her!” Maysilee says and turns to help with the pieces.

“What happened?” I ask and kneel before them. Maysilee quickly blubbers an explanation and I mutter indignantly. Furious that he snatched and played so rough with someone else’s toy, to the point of destruction.

We abscond to the bathing room and do our best to clean up the doll. I spend the afternoon stitching and patching the tattered pieces back together as Miranda sits at my knee and points out instructions, holds the pieces steady to make the work easier.

Peeta sends word that he will be late. One patient turned into two, then three and now he will likely be out past sunset. I delay the girls’ dinner and then bed as long as I can, but it is already night when I sigh and tell Sae to see them in bed and that I will be the one providing a story. I cannot find Madge and wonder at her disappearance.

As I make my way down the hall, I hear voices from their room and smile. Maysilee has been a wonder for Miranda. But as I reach the door, the voice catches me off guard. Unfamiliar. I halt and cling to the doorframe out of sight as I realise it is not an entirely unfamiliar voice. I heard it only this afternoon, discussing how lovely the garden would be once everything blooms, then hurling a curse at a boy. I hadn’t even noticed, so distracted by writing letters.

I stifle a laugh as I listen to Miranda, weaving her own story for a rapt Maysilee. Tears prick at my eyes and I wonder, how long has she been speaking to Maysilee? To the other children? It is wondrous, hearing the soft child tones of serious storytelling as Maysilee gasps in wonder and Miranda adopts an important tone as she continues the tale, twisting and turning until something terrible occurs to me.

She has still not spoken to Peeta, nor to I…

I cling to the door frame and peek around to catch just a glimpse of the happy scene. Two girls in bed, sharing friendship and comfort, a story. Something cracks in my heart then. Unbearable joy and sudden melancholy. I do not even know what to do until I hear footsteps and spin about to stop the intruder.

Peeta. 

I shake my head and lift a finger to my lips to indicate silence. His brow furrows, but he complies, coming to stand before me, our gazes locked until the tones from within the room spark understanding in his eyes. His lips part in shock and he smiles at me, leaning forward to rest his forehead on mine. We stand there like that, hidden in the silence and shadows and listening as Miranda’s voice grows in strength and warmth, spreading wings and flying into my heart. My hands clasp with Peeta’s.

When the story is done, Peeta kisses my brow and squeezes my hand. It is only when Maysilee begins to speak that we turn and knock, requesting entrance.

We say our goodnights to the girls and Peeta asks if they would like a story.

“You must be tired, Mister Peeta,” Maysilee says. “You can tell us two stories tomorrow!” 

He chuckles at this and agrees before bending to kiss Miranda’s forehead. I ask after Madge.

“Oh she gave us our kisses earlier, then she said she was tired and heading to bed.”

Strange, but I do not question it overly much as Peeta and I extinguish lights and then leave the girls to their sleep.

“I was in a rush to see the girls to sleep and left Cicero untended,” Peeta says as we walk back down the hall, hand in hand. “I should return to the stables.”

“I will go with you,” I offer and he squeezes my hand. We can share details of our day as we work. Only, when we reach the hall, my mother has a pressing request for him. I take Peeta’s great coat and give him a wan smile.

“I will see to Cicero,” I promise and shrug into his coat. The extra fabric is perhaps a bit too much, but does a far better job of encompassing all of me than my own cloak does.

It is a lovely night, only a slight chill to it and a wide canvas of bright stars. I smile up at them and dance a few steps towards the stables. It is wondrous, Miranda speaking. Now it is only a matter of time before she speaks to me as well. I find myself giddy over the prospect and therefore do not notice until nearly too late.

I stop before I am fully through the stable door, frozen in place at the sight that greets me, painted in the warmth of flickering lantern light, an almost romantic aura to the scene.

Two people kissing. Both of their eyes are closed, unaware of my unintentional intrusion.

At first, I think to bash in Jo’s skull for daring such intimacy. For forcing herself on — 

But then Madge lifts her hands and sets them to Johanna’s hips. I watch, mesmerised as her delicate fingers that pluck tunes so deftly from a piano, clench tight, turning desperately pale as she clings to the rough trousers and pulls Johanna closer, until their bodies are flush. Johanna’s darker, dirt stained hands caress over Madge’s creamy cheeks, one slipping effortlessly into silken blonde hair, ruffling the meticulous coif, the other sliding down to tease at the flimsy material of Madge’s fichu. And then...then Madge tilts her head ever so slightly, resting her scalp into Johanna’s hand and opens her mouth on a heartbreaking sigh. They share the sound between them.

I am witness to the deepening of their kiss. To the flush that spreads Madge’s cheeks as Johanna palms her breast through layers of dress and corset. The lanterns bathing them in a golden glow and despite the night chill, I feel again as though I am afire. It is not entirely unpleasant, though.

Oh. Oh my, I think as Johanna takes a step forward, guiding them both into the shadows beneath the loft and Madge tugs up on the course shirt Johanna wears until her hands disappear beneath.

And then I know, this is not the fire of hell licking over my skin, not the prickling of disaster along my scalp, but the knowledge of desire and need rising up in empathy. In understanding. My body understands long before my mind.

I silently back out into the starlight and turn my back to them. I scan the courtyard for any other potential intruders, my heart pounding in my chest. They cannot be discovered so… at least not by anyone other than myself.

I gulp down air as I listen guiltily to the sounds in the stables, unable to yet wrap my mind around what I have witnessed although my body has grasped the truth already. Hushed words, the whinny of a few horses. The remembered heat of a lover’s mouth on mine, his hands on my body. Peeta’s whispers in my ears and fingers burning starlight into my veins. I squeeze my eyes shut and swear that I can hear them kissing, although that may be my imagination inserting the now familiar sounds.

Another soft moan.

“Will you deny yourself forever?”

“You know why I stay away.”

“Your heart is pounding. Are you still afraid?”

“I am not afraid of this.” Another soft sigh dances on the fragrance of hay and my cheeks feel near to combustion. “Only what others may do if they learn of us—“

“You cannot let that stop you.”

“Jo!” Madge’s censure in her tone is lost in the way she moans on the following breath. Such  _ longing _ ! Such desire in the sound. “I am… oh I am a guest here, as are you.”

“Then run away with me.”

“There is nowhere we could go and be safe.”

“We would find a way.”

“Please stop. I cannot… cannot be strong much longer… I … I dream about you...”

“Tonight then? Will you come to me tonight? After everyone is asleep? I’ll be here waiting for you, my angel.”

“Yes… No,” Madge promises then rescinds. “Oh I do not know what I am saying. My head is all a muddle when you kiss me like that. I have to think of Maysilee and what is best for her.”

“Did you not tell me you want her to have the courage to seek the life she desires, the love she deserves.”

“I…  _ yes _ ,” Madge moans and gasps in the same sound somehow.

“How else can you teach her such a thing if you deny it for yourself?” An entwined moan lifts softly into the night. “Your wandering hands don’t lie. What you feel right now is no lie…”

“No. I know.”

“Be careful sneaking from the house, Angel.”

My eyes slide closed for a moment and my mind paints the scene within. I cannot help myself, even though I know it to be a gross invasion of their privacy. I picture furtive hands beneath a linen shirt, loosened trousers and a skirt ruched up to allow calloused hands beneath to caress creamy thighs. Up and up to heaven... 

“Katniss!” Madge gasps and I freeze in place, body tense with the surety that my perfidy has been discovered. 

“It’s Johanna, my sweet,” Jo states between kisses. “Are my kisses so powerful to stun you into confusion?”

“No, I know, it’s you… only… I cannot betray Katniss.”

Johanna grunts, the sound annoyed. The kissing ceases.

“Do not ask me to break her trust.” Madge’s voice is soft and pleading.

“Then  _ tell _ her, Angel.”

“I cannot. You know I cannot. Please do not ask this of me!”

“You break her trust by  _ not  _ telling her, you know.”

“And have you told Peeta?” Madge asks accusingly. Johanna laughs.

The undertones of their voices are unmistakable. Enough to finally break the hold of shock and spur my feet into motion. I shake myself from my stupor, quickly leaving my post guarding them and scurrying across the courtyard to afford them some privacy to sort their differences. It is late, no one else will be heading to the stables now, and Johanna would not leave Cicero untended. I trust her to see to Peeta’s mount without being asked…

Trust. It is a strange predicament to trust someone I once feared might have designs on my husband, and yet, somehow I understand that to Johanna, Peeta’s happiness was far more important than her desires in this instance, because she loves him too. As I love Madge.

Oh, it begins to tangle and then untangle in my head, all of the connections and little touches, even though I fear to place a name to the thing I witnessed, I cannot stop myself. Single words are all I can manage as I return to the house. 

Lovers. Tryst. Quarrel.

Madge and Johanna are lovers, I realise. For how long, I cannot say, although the more I reflect on it, the less surprised I am.

Did Johanna not state that she enjoyed the intimate company of women as well as men? At the time, the reveal of her true identity had me shocked enough and my jealousy over her relationship with Peeta occupied my thoughts enough to barely register that statement. So much so that I was not shocked over such an admission. But… Madge? 

There is no denying my friend’s loveliness, her kindness and bravery. I cannot fault Johanna the attraction at all. It is Madge’s return of it that puzzles me. She gave no indication of her preference. None whatsoever in all our talks of marriage and intimacy. How is such a thing physically accomplished? Two women as lovers?

In all the nights we shared a bed as sisters and friends… my mind leaps from one thought to another and I find myself leaning against one of the outbuildings to catch my breath and hold one hand over my pounding heart.

A laugh escapes me, astonished and crazed. Tears prick at my eyes as I wonder if some of our late night confidences held something more than I had previously thought. Sudden rage and regret fills me at the thought of my dear friend hiding this aspect of herself, of carefully and cautiously phrasing her answers and questions to hide from me…

No. No I will not flatter myself into thinking that Madge had intimate thoughts or designs on me beyond what I already believe of our friendship. Even if she had, it would not matter. I do not believe that I could return them. Johanna however, can and clearly does… but it cannot be. 

Why can it not be?

True, the church would view their connection as a sin, and yet… I can easily see Father Crane chastising me for my seemingly boundless lust for my husband. My  _ husband!  _ I cannot countenance the belief that any such love is a sin, if it is shared and pure of heart. 

There is also the matter of their stations in life. I’ve no idea of Johanna’s origins but she is now employed as a stable lad… and Madge is a former countess! Even were it not considered to be a violation of nature’s laws in the eyes of the church, it would still be considered a violation of society’s. Even that does not truly bother me, although it presents many obstacles for my friend’s happiness…

No, what truly bothers me, I realise as I abscond to the gardens and listen to the sounds of my own pacing on the gravel pathways, inhale the comforting scents of an earth reawakening...is that Madge did not see fit to trust me with the confidence. Did she attempt to tell me in her own way and I merely did not hear? Have I failed her so spectacularly as a friend?

And more importantly… what are we to do about it?

  
  



	30. Chapter 30

I am a swirling confusion and a fog of need. My mind feels separate from my body as I make my way carefully inside and upstairs to our rooms. Peeta is not there yet. I return downstairs, bathe, and then prepare for bed, all in such a daze. As I dismiss Mary for the evening, I settle on the floor before our fire, brushing my damp hair. 

The window is open, admitting a fragrant spring breeze, fresh with rain and new blooms. And still my thoughts do not clear.

Not until Peeta enters the room with a sigh, leaning back against the door and watching me. His blue eyes are deep, dark gems in the firelight.

“Should morning not come and we were stuck in this room for eternity… I think I might be happy,” he states and I smile but turn to the fire.

“Until I go into childbirth.”

He laughs lightly and makes quick work of disrobing. “Even then, I think I could find it in my heart to feel complete joy with the company.”

“Mother was not overly demanding, was she?”

“No she needed to discuss some of our lessening stores of medicines, and then I was needed to help with a burn in the kitchens, and Doctor Aurelius sends word that he is ill and unable to accompany me tomorrow should anyone have need and -- heavens I worry that his health is fading and I will be called upon to fulfill his duties sooner than I am ready.” 

“Was the infantry such a poor training for a doctor then?”

“There is a vast difference in the primary requirement. A bullet hole is easy to diagnose, if not so easy to mend. Disease is… far more meddlesome to diagnose and more elusive to heal.” He finally settles on the sofa, removes his leg, and spreads a medical text on his lap, brow creasing in study. It is quiet and I continue to brush my hair, unwilling to interrupt him.

“After Mr. Hawthorne’s visit, I think I will need to make a trip to Capitol,” he says some time later. 

I hum in answer, brow furrowed as I mull over Madge and Johanna’s predicament. I’ve still no way to know what to do or if I should do anything at all. I wish to discuss what I saw and heard in the stables with Peeta, but do not know if doing so amounts to a betrayal of their confidence in me -- or at least Madge’s -- because I was not supposed to see nor hear their tryst tonight. 

“Katniss?”

“Yes?” I ask rather testily, looking over at him. He gives me a wry smile.

“I knew you were not listening.”

“Of course I was. You said you would go to Capitol after the Hawthornes’ visit.”

“Yes, and I also said I would be making the trip to reenlist. In the infantry.”

“Fine then. I was not listening.” I glare at him and toss aside my brush. He shifts aside his books and comes to sit behind me, taking up the brush and the task. I relax into his touch. Into the comfort of being taken care of by someone who loves me. “Will you be gone long?”

“Hopefully not. I only wish to speak with a few professors. Perhaps sit an exam or two, to show them my progress. I would not want to miss the birth of our child, so it will need to be soon,” he murmurs and begins to braid my hair, the tips of his fingers tickling my scalp. My own fingers seem to adopt the motions, caressing lightly over the worn flesh where his left leg ends.

“Make it as swift as possible, then.” I feel as though water had replaced all the bones in my body. I become a lump of comfort, wrapped in his attentions. 

“Will you miss me?” he whispers and I smile, my eyes drifting shut as his fingers now brush the nape of my neck and lower.

“Abominably. Who will massage my ankles when I become foul tempered?” He pinches my bottom and I squeak but lean back into his embrace for a short kiss to my lips. 

“I will make it swift then,” he promises and gently moves me away from him so that he can tie my braid with a bit of ribbon. The task done, he rests his hands on my shoulders and presses sweet kisses to the side of my neck. “Will you not tell me what troubles you?”

My body tenses as I think on my choices.

“Is it this additional guest Mr. Hawthorne brings with him?”

“Tis unforgivably rude,” I mutter and glare at the fire as though it had invited itself into my home rather than being stuck there.

“He did give us nearly a week of notice and we have the room, with a few adjustments.”

“But a business advisor? Peeta, I am not sure I can bear the examination of my home in this manner.”

“We will face it as it comes, together,” he says and lifts our joined hands to kiss my fingers. “Shall I rub your ankles now or once we are in bed?”

“Should you study more first?” I ask with a look at his texts.

“I probably should, but I am so tired tonight.”

“Oh,” I say and bite my lip. I should not burden him with more of my troubles but...

“Is there something else we need discuss?” Peeta murmurs to me that he is never too tired to listen to me air my troubles.

Finally, I turn to him. “It is about Madge. And Johanna. They are…rather close...one might even say that they have become...” I cannot finish the thought but Peeta seems to understand, his face relaxing and his eyes lifting to the ceiling. He curses under his breath.

“I was afraid she might. I will talk to her, if you wish. Remind her of the differences in their stations.”

“Oh no, don’t do that,” I say and he stares at me. Blinks for a moment. My hand clenches into a fist and I stare at the carpet. I manage to tell him what I saw and some of my thoughts since then. “Do you think so low of me then that you believe I would judge my friend for her unconventional attachments?”

“To another woman? Or to a servant? Either would be cause for censure among many people,” he says and I lift my eyes to his. A sudden softening happens in the blue depths and I know. He understands. “But not to you. Nor to me.”

“Had circumstances been different, had you not been playing with Robert that day...” I say and swallow, “you would have been a baker.”

“You and I would never have met under those circumstances, Katniss. I would have been working in the kitchens somewhere, never to be seen and certainly not to be noticed by the gentile Miss Everdeen, to say nothing of _ loved  _ by her.”

“I was never so wealthy as that. You think I would not have snuck into those kitchens for late night repasts? Come now, you know me better than that.” He smiles at this and twines our fingers together. “Or mayhaps I would have visited the house where you worked and been so enraptured by your creations that I would have insisted on an audience with the baker, that I might show my appreciation.”

“A highly improper flirtation or perhaps a tawdry affaire in the kitchens, then. For it could have gone no further.”

“Yes. Instead of hay in my hair it would have been flour spread over my thighs and breasts.” For a moment, his eyes darken as his gaze sweeps over me, clearly imagining such a sight. I laugh lightly at him.

I am not certain where we begin kissing, only aware of the feelings it evokes inside me. His arms hold me warm and secure, my fingers thread through his curls to keep him close. We part reluctantly and with soft gasps.

“However briefly our paths may have crossed, I am certain I would have been in your thrall,” I whisper. Then the desire lifts from his eyes and he shakes his head.

“It would never have been. I would have been terrified of you. Even as we are, I scarcely dared to hope such a one as you could love me until it had already happened, and truthfully, were I the baker instead of the bastard brother, I would have been too concerned that I would lose my post to be bold enough for an affaire.”

“Even for me?” I ask and feign a pout. Peeta laughs in my face and kisses me once more.

“Especially for you. That would have required a monumental amount of courage, my love.”

“You possess courage enough.”

“Perhaps I do, but the baker might not have.”

“Then, I suppose I would have had to be the one who was bold,” I say and lean in to kiss him. It is only a brief caress before my shoulders once more slump with the weight of dilemma. “What are we to do?”

“What do you wish to do? It is one thing to imagine a scenario where you, the landowning farmer’s daughter, would have fallen in love with the humble baker, but… odds are it is only that. A pleasant imagining. A comforting lie to think that no matter the circumstances, we would have found one another.”

“Do you not believe we would have? Do you not believe that love can overcome all obstacles? That this would have happened anyways?”

He shakes his head. “As much as I wish I could believe it, I cannot even find my own mother, Katniss.”

Guilt is swift and I think on his words a long time before resolve settles into my bones.

“Then that is my answer,” I say with conviction. “I wish to do whatever we need do to make it so that the widowed countess and the stable lad who is truly a woman in disguise being together is not a pleasant imagining, but a reality.”

“Have you spoken to Madge about this?” he asks and for a moment, I cannot meet his eyes.

“No...I confess that I am afraid to do so.”

“She is your friend. As long as you make it clear you wish to help and continue being her dear friend…”

“It is more than that,” I say and huff then shake my head. It sounds so terrible and yet it must be said. “She and I shared a bed many a time...for years. Even up until my wedding to you. It is a common enough practice amongst sisters and girl friends, meant to be a safeguard for our virtues, but if she feels physical attraction for other girls… Nothing... nothing happened between us and yet when I saw her with Johanna, it… caused things... _ feelings _ …”

I am burning with shame as I look up at Peeta’s grinning face. “You were aroused.”

“I was not!”

“Why the indignation?” he asks. “Careful of your answer, for it will reveal much.”

“I am a married woman!” I protest and thump his chest. “A  _ faithfully _ married woman!”

“Ah,” he says, positioning me to straddle his lap, cumbersome belly and all. “So then it is not disgust that upsets you, but the implication that your arousal at watching two people engaged in an amorous embrace might make you  _ un _ faithful to your poor husband?”

“That was...part of it…” I trail off as he kisses along my throat. “And you are not poor.”

“No, I am not. I am excessively wealthy in life.” His hands wander beneath my shift and find me already damp with arousal. I squirm in his hold, cheeks flushed. “And the other part that upset you… Oh Katniss, my love… there is nothing strange about what you felt. You witnessed an arousing sight and so you were aroused. It does not mean you harbor a secret attraction to either Madge or Johanna. And even if Madge felt desire or love for you in the course of your friendship with her...she now has Johanna. You will not hurt her in loving me.”

I stiffen at his words, at how precisely they capture how I feel. Yet, the stiffness passes almost as quickly as I am filled with relief. Relief that he understands. Relief that he is not disgusted with any of us. Only then am I truly able to enjoy the feel of his kisses.

It is some time later, when I am draped across the bed, having finally recovered my breath but not my ability to move my legs, Peeta’s head resting alongside my belly his hand absently caressing over my thigh, my fingers combing through his wild hair that I know he’s right. I must speak to Madge. Soon. No matter how much I dread the conversation.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

There is, of course, the great paradox that as soon as you know you must speak to your dear friend...you are unable to. 

All is in chaos from the moment of waking. Last minute preparations for the arrival of our guests begin as soon as the breakfast plates are cleared. I am about to climb a chair to help repair some of the draperies in the hall when Peeta finds me and makes a sound of protest, gesturing towards my stomach and pulling me gently away from the chair.

“Do you wish to induce early labor or cause harm to the babe?”

“I am perfectly capable of completing a simple task without injuring myself.”

“I found you on your back in the mud when we first met. Be careful what you claim to be perfectly capable of,” Peeta says, his cheeks turning red and his voice raspy. His anger stirs my own and I scowl at him.

“Are you suggesting that I cannot--”

“I am suggesting you use better judgement,” he says and takes my hands in his. I attempt to extricate them, furious at being ordered about, but give up when I feel his fingers tremble around my own. “Katniss, please. What if you had fallen?”

There is no anger in his voice now, only worry, and palor beneath his skin. I suddenly feel rather guilty for my actions and my words.

“You would attend me,” I whisper and rest one hand on his cheek.

“I am grateful for your faith in me, my love. I would prefer you not test it so. Not today.” He seems so worried that I cannot deny him and ask Horatio to see to the task before turning back to Peeta.

“Better?”

“Yes,” he breathes and I drop my gaze to the floor. It is then that I notice his boots, and the gloves he dropped on the floor before touching me.

“You are dressed for riding.”

“Martin Farrow sent word that his wife has gone into childbirth. A fortnight too soon.” His concern suddenly makes sense as I snap my head back to look at him.

“And Dr. Aurelius is indisposed.”

“I must beg your forgiveness for abandoning you to the preparations, my love. And also for taking your mother with me, Katniss. I am so sorry. I know we have guests--”

“I will be fine. Mr. Hawthorne and his companions are nothing I cannot handle. As long as I climb no more chairs.”

“Yes, please do not,” Peeta laughs and embraces me, kissing my hair and whispering that he loves me. It is then that I realise he is afraid. Of what, I am unsure. I dare not ask him to tarry and explain. We will have tonight to discuss it.

Tarry we must, though. As I walk to the door with him to see him off, a shout goes up.

“Ho there! Mr. and Mrs. Mellark. A word if you please!” The man shouts from a fair distance as he walks up our lane.

“It cannot be the Hawthorne party at this early hour,” I grouse and quickly wipe my hands on my apron to meet the new arrival. 

“No and they would not be walking on foot,” Peeta adds.

The figure approaching on foot is familiar, and as I place who it is, I sigh. “Damn.”

“What is it?”

“Father Crane approaches,” I tell Peeta and he too curses. I hurry to the door and call for the person I need. “Sae… take Maysilee and Miranda upstairs. Tell my mother that she and Mr. Mellark will be delayed a moment in leaving.”

I then exit the door to greet Father Crane. I have a suspicion his visit is to do with Miranda and what happened in the gardens yesterday. No doubt he is here to defend his boar of a son, the youngest of five, all of whom run rough shod over the entire area. The oldest of which made attempts at courting me when we were much younger. I shudder at the memory of the vulgar poem that came right before the fire, and the speed with which David Crane ceased his suit afterwards.

But it is not youthful poetry that concerns me, it is a broken toy and a curse muttered in anger. As much as I applaud Miranda for defending herself, such an act will no doubt have consequences. Consequences that march now down the lane towards us. Would that we were free to speak our minds fully, I might throw a shoe at the preacher and curse him as well. 

But...all is not dire. I stand beside my husband as he waits with me.

“Should you not depart?”

“Not yet, I think,” Peeta says and grasps my hand to link our arms together. And even though I do not look forward to this audience, I am glad for Peeta’s presence beside me. He is quite deft at calming any situation that has the potential to boil over.

I cannot fly off in a temper with Father Crane, as much as I would like to. As long as he resides on Everdeen as the cleric, I must pretend to niceties and obedience. This is no highwayman waving a pistol and thus requires more subtlety to handle. Abominable to have to lie, to deceive, but likely necessary. Therefore, I roll my shoulders back and paste a smile on my face.

“Good morning, Father! To what do we owe the pleasure of your visit?” Peeta calls out as he approaches at last.

“No pleasure, Mr. Mellark. I am here on the Lord’s business,” he huffs as he approaches the steps. His face is red and he pauses on the steps to wipe sweat from his brow, carefully folding his handkerchief and placing it in his pocket before he climbs the steps towards us. Together, Peeta and I drop into a genuflection.

“Welcome, then. Would you care for tea? Or perhaps lemonade,” I offer.

“Tea will be fine,” he says and we turn to lead him into the house. “What is the fuss about?” he asks, indicating the servants still hard at work in the hall.

“We are expecting guests today. Mr. Gale Hawthorne, his brother, and one more travels in their party,” Peeta offers.

“Ah, the new owners.”

“Not as yet,” I say, unable to keep the bite from my words, the reminder that my father is still alive.

“Hmmm. I should like to meet him while he is here.”

“I am certain you shall. They will be here for at least one Sunday and will no doubt attend church with us,” Peeta says. Father Crane makes a noncommittal noise and I manage a grateful smile for my husband. He somehow manages to be polite and ensure that Father Crane will get what he wants without my having to invite the odious man to dinner or some such thing. He would not dare rudely invite himself now.

I show him to the parlor and Peeta manages pleasantries until Nell, one of the kitchen maids, brings tea with a quick curtsy. I pour and pretend not to notice Father Crane watching her movements a little more than is seemly.

As soon as the maid is gone, Father Crane clears his throat.

“I’ve no wish to waste time, so I’ll get right to it. The girl, the one you brought here in winter, she cursed my boy.”

“Cursed him how?” Peeta asks, feigning ignorance or perhaps forcing Father Crane to speak the words aloud, in all their ridiculousness. I calmly add sugar and cream to the tea as needed, although I’d much rather dump it in the man’s lap.

“Does it matter? I’ve a responsibility to the souls of my congregation and the child is practicing witchcraft. I demand that you turn her over to me that I might convince her to reverse this dreadful deed and rescue her before she is completely lost to the devil.”

I have no intention of handing my daughter into his care. Not in a million years nor if the Rapture came this afternoon.

“Has anything befallen your son?” I ask.

Father Crane examines me at length, his eyes cold and his jaw working. He answers begrudgingly. “No, thanks to providence.”

“Then what exactly is your concern?” Peeta asks rather gently. Crane sputters.

“That is beside the point Mr. Mellark. These things may not have immediate results.”

“Oh,” I say rather innocently. “I would not know. I’ve no experience with witchcraft.” He stares at me and blinks before adopting a concerned expression, reaching across to pat my hands. 

“Of course not, my dear.”

“Because I do not believe such witches exist.”

Father Crane sneers at me and sips his tea.

“Your innocence in such matters is a credit to you, Mrs. Mellark. But I doubt that you want a child of the devil about when your own precious lamb arrives.”

He pointedly looks at my swollen belly. I cannot help myself. I place a hand protectively over the growing babe. Father Crane makes a noise of triumph in his throat and turns to Peeta again. He delineates all possibilities and Peeta listens, nodding as appropriate. When Father Crane has exhausted all his considerable advice, Peeta sets aside his empty cup and stands.

“Father Crane, I do thank you for sharing your wisdom on such matters and we will carefully consider your council.”

I stand and Father Crane thankfully has enough manners about him to stand as well, to gather his things as he insists that he only wishes the best for the souls under his keeping. We give him a promise to speak with Miranda about such behaviors and see him to the door.

My mother arrives then, a basket of supplies over her arm, my father helping her into a cloak. “Are we ready now, Peeta?”

“Yes,” he says, tugging his gloves on.

With a swift kiss to my lips, despite the presence of both my parents and several servants in the area, Peeta and my mother then depart. I fold my hands together and sigh, leaning against the house in a spot I know will afford me a view to watch him ride away.

He has already spent months with such a schedule as this. There are of course the regular visits amongst the servants and out to the tenants, and not just of Everdeen. Peeta has ridden as far beyond the borders of our land as he can manage in a day to see to patients. And yet this, him leaving with my mother beside him to deliver a baby, without the guidance of Dr. Aurelius… I am filled at once with a strange sort of melancholy, pride, and love.

But I’ve no time to savor it, I’ve details to attend, and a friend to lend my support. I turn back to the house to immerse myself in tasks only to find myself facing a panting and flushed Sae.

“Mrs. Mellark...I could not find Miranda. I’ve looked everywhere.”

A strange fear bubbles up inside me and I cast about for ideas on where she might be hiding.

“She must be about somewhere, check the stables,” I insist. 

“Yes, ma’am.” Sae departs. It is then that a flash of red and a blue dress emerge from behind a clock positioned near to the parlor. She flees upstairs even as I call out to her.

“Miranda!”

Her footsteps pound on the stairs and I hurry after her, muttering under my breath at how much slower I now am. How much more careful I must be with the babe altering my balance.

The door to her and Maysilee’s room slams. It takes a moment or two for me to catch up with her. I knock and then warn her.

“Miranda, I am coming in.”

The door opens easily beneath my hand and I gasp as a blanket is dropped over me. “Miranda!” I struggle free and scowl at her as she hides beneath the bed. I toss the thing aside and take a deep breath. More footsteps in the hall and Sae in the doorway.

“I heard you shouting.”

“I have found her,” I say and then send Sae away to see to Maysilee. Once more alone, I sigh and move towards the bed.

“Miranda, my love… what do you hope to gain with such a trap?”

“Are you going to send me back now?”

My heart breaks the instant she speaks. My knees buckle with the pain and I sit clumsily in the bedside chair. To have her first words to me be such a thing. 

“Heavens no! Miranda why would you think I would?”

“That man...the preacher. I don’t like him. But he said you wouldn’t want me once you have your own baby.”

“Oh Miranda, my dove. No. No, he was wrong, and I don’t much like him either. He thinks me rather wicked.”

“But you didn’t...you let him say it and didn’t correct him.”

“I know. I know, but I wanted to. Oh how I wanted to.” She sniffles and shifts beneath the bed. “But sometimes, we must pretend to believe things we do not, or behave in a certain way so that others do not hurt us. Like wearing a mask. Like you used to do at the orphanage sometimes.”

One small hand becomes visible to me as she moves again. The cat wanders out and leaps into my lap. Miranda does not call him back.

“What did you name your kitten, Miranda my dove?”

“Odysseus,” she whispers. “Like that poem you read to me.”

I hum and pet the cat. Of course. It has become one of her favourites for me to read to her. Slowly, she pulls her body from beneath the bed and stands before me. Dust has caught in her hair and her ribbons are undone. Her blue eyes downcast and sorrow on her face. I reach out and take her hand in mine, and she allows it.

“Now that you are speaking to us, I feel that I must ask...Do  _ you _ want to return to the orphanage?”

“No!” she shouts and then shrinks back, softens her tone. “No. I… I thought we were to be a family.”

“We are a family,” I say and pat my knee, lifting the cat enough that Miranda may slide into my lap. I deposit her pet into her arms and brush back her hair. “I am not upset with what you said to that boy yesterday, but there are others who will be.”

“But I’m not really a witch. I can’t curse anyone!” she protests.

“No, but there are some who will believe you can. And the first time something dreadful happens to Jacob Crane...they will look to you to blame.”

“They’ll blame me even if I hadn’t cursed him,” she complains. “They did that at the orphanage, too.”

“They might. But I won’t.” Her eyes widen as she stares at me. “I will smile at every misguided soul who enters the parlour looking to have you punished when you’ve done nothing wrong. I will lie to them in whatever underhanded manner I need to protect you, and then send them on their way.”

“You will?”

“Yes, if that is what it takes to protect you, Miranda. I will be a merciless liar.”

She giggles at that and the sound warms me.

“Is that what you were doing today?” I nod and her giggles calm. “And Papa too?” For a moment, I am confused.

“Papa?” Miranda nods and curls into me as best she can.

“I know he said he is my brother but...he seems more like a Papa to me. Like your Papa is to you.”

I embrace her and kiss her wild tangle of red hair.

“Yes. Yes, Miranda, your Papa-brother will lie for you as well.”

“Mama?” she says and once more, my heart shatters inside me. With joy this time as tears line my eyes.

“Yes, my dove?”

“I am sorry for throwing the blanket on you.”

I hug her close and fight back my tears. “Oh my darling. I am not angry over that.”

A cough at the door catches our attention and I lift my head to see Madge smiling at us. “I hate to interrupt, but I believe lessons are about to resume in the school room.”

“Oh,” Miranda says. “Do I have to?”

I ignore Madge’s astonishment at the revelation of Miranda’s voice and turn to my daughter.

“Yes, you must. Learning is the most important task you now have before you. Madge, she will be right down.”

“Of course,” Madge says and then leaves in almost a daze.

“Now before you go, my dove, you must repeat after me. This is the most important lesson you will learn today.”

She blinks up at me and nods, determination to please shining in her eyes.

“My name is Miranda Mellark.” I wait and she takes a deep breath before speaking.

“My name is Miranda Mellark.” Such a beautiful sentence spoken in her calm voice.

“I am eight years old.”

“I am eight years old.”

“My home is Everdeen.” She dutifully returns each phrase I give her.

“My Papa is also my brother. We are twice bound together as family.”

“Somewhere I have a mother who wanted me to have a better life than what she could give me.”

“You’re my mother now, are you not?” Miranda interrupts the proceedings and I nod.

“If you insist... My second mother is Katniss Mellark.”

“My mother is Katniss Mellark,” Miranda says with a saucy smile that makes me laugh and kiss the tip of her nose.

“My parents are both marked by fire in their skin as I am in my hair.” She dutifully repeats the phrase, her fingers lightly touching my scarred shoulder.

“They love me from the roots of my flaming red hair,” I ruffle the already wild locks, “down to the tips of my witchy, twitchy toes--” I tickle her and she laughs, squirming in my hold until the cat makes an escape. “--and everywhere between.”

Miranda giggles at this and then turns sombre for the last line I feed her.

“So long as I remember who I am, and how I am loved, I will never truly need to wear a mask.”

Miranda curls close to me and we sit like that for a moment before a question can no longer be contained.

“Did you only bring me here because Papa and I are brother and sister?”

“No,” I tell her. “That may have been the reason we started with, but reasons can grow and branch into something new and change.”

“Like the flowers in the garden,” Miranda says. “Or the trees.”

“Yes,” I say. We sit there for too long, talking quietly. About why we brought her here, how we came to love her, and how that at least will not change when her new sibling arrives. We are neglecting her studies and my duties and yet I cannot bring myself to care.

Finally, when her questions have been exhausted for now, I send her on her way.

“One more thing, Miranda,” I say and she pauses in the doorway.

“Yes, Mother?” I may never tire of hearing her use that word.

“When he returns home tonight, Peeta will want to hear you speak.” She smiles and nods, then races down the hall with the exuberance of a child who is loved and cared for.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The work continues. The day brings the warmth of spring sun and the drifting fragrance of early blooms in the garden, the mud coated laughter of men and women dancing on the breeze, heartened after the beginning of the planting. The end of the harsh winter brings promise, and yet, once I have dealt with Father Crane and Miranda, and half a dozen other issues, I cannot help but examine Madge’s downturned face for signs at every turn. It becomes apparent that we will have no time today for that talk, and I am desperate with worry for her now.

Is the pallor of her skin that of a sleepless night? Sleepless because she spent it in the arms of a lover in the stables? Or because she did not, and instead spent it thrashing in bed, doubting her choices and fearing her future.

I am tormented the entire day, catching the falseness in her laughter as she converses with several of the tenants. Bright spots of blush on her cheeks whenever Johanna is within sight, and once more I reel with questions.

Is it the blush of memory? The flush of a body sastfied and a passion sated? Or the blush of denial?

In the end, I’ve no chance to find out. The cry rises up, the sighting of an approaching cart. The luggage of the gentleman who even now make their way towards Everdeen. A pair of servants who arrive with the luggage is swift to distribute it and settle in, to prepare for the arrival of their employers. All too soon, a carriage and a trio of horses in trail arrives.

I recognise the gentle brown with the white socks that Rory Hawthorne rides and Prim is quite occupied adjusting her dress and appearance.

“Will you cease? You look radiant,” I tell her and she blushes.

It is an annoyance to be greeting them at all, and I find myself wishing that Peeta were here. There has been no word from him or Mother as yet, and so I can only assume that the child has not yet arrived.

It tastes foul in my mouth, greeting the man with the potential to usurp my family, toss us all out on our rears with next to nothing. Miranda slips her hand in mine and I glance down at her. She is once more wearing the blue turban, but she stands tall and proud beside me to greet our guests.

No. Not with nothing, I realise. Mr. Hawthorne cannot touch our money. Cannot touch the love between Peeta and I, nor the child growing inside me, nor the one clinging to my hand. And even without Peeta beside me to say it again, I know he is right.

_ “It will be alright, Katniss.”  _ He had said last night in our room.

I smile at Miranda now and give her an encouraging nod.

The carriage halts and Rory Hawthorne is the first to emerge, a bright smile on his face as he does. His eyes find Primrose first and, seemingly assured of her presence, he descends the step to greet me and the man standing beside me.

“Mrs. Mellark. A pleasure to see you once again,” he says warmly, with a gallant bow in my direction. “And this…”

“My father, Mr. Kent Everdeen,” I say and Papa grunts slightly as Rory’s eyes widen and his cheeks pinken.

“Sir, it is an honour. I was quite glad when Miss Everdeen wrote to me of your recovery,” he says and then stammers for a moment, realising his error in mentioning that he is a young man who openly corresponded with an unmarried girl, without her father’s permission.

“My girls made it quite easy, all of them capable of managing affairs so well that I am not certain I was needed or missed.”

“Papa, of course you were missed and are needed,” Primrose scolds and steps forward so that Rory may greet her now. He does so swiftly, almost awkwardly, and then turns to the two young men who have stepped from the carriage behind him.

The first is tall and lean, well turned out, his complexion dark and his hair darker. Even his grey eyes appear to swirl with an impenetrable darkness. The similarities make it clear that this is Rory’s brother. Mr. Gale Hawthorne. After so many months of hating him from a distance, I had rather fancied him a mustache twirling villain with pocked skin, perhaps greasy hair, or a bad form caused by gluttony and excess. Unfortunately, he is undeniably handsome in a way that would make all the ladies of an assembly scheme for his name on their dance card. He moves with a lithe sort of grace that reminds me of a panther. He gazes over the façade of the house as one examines a meal. His chin turned up in arrogance and certainty.

Already I hate him.

The second man is far more amiable in appearance with bright green eyes and bright red hair beneath a jauntily cocked hat, freckles on his nose, bright pale skin. He is all brightness where his companion is dour darkness and brooding.

“Allow me, please,” Rory says and waves towards the two men in turn. “My brother, Mr. Gale Hawthorne. His business associate Mr. Darius Fremont.” They bow in unison and Rory turns to our party. “Now let me hope I do not err with so many names.”

He runs down the names from my father all the way to Maysilee without a single error. He has been paying attention to Prim’s letters and I can feel her excitement radiating off of her. I send her a small smile. Thus far, her suitor has acquitted himself admirably.

“I hope we will not inconvenience you, Mrs. Mellark,” Mr. Hawthorne states with a pointed look at my pregnant form.

“Indeed not,” I assure him and bite the inside of my cheek when a swift kick from the child nearly me makes me cry out in pain.

“Now I do not see Mrs. Everdeen, nor one who might be Mr. Peeta Mellark…” Rory states uncertainly.

“They were called to attend to a woman in childbirth,” Primrose explains and invites the gentlemen into the house. “They will hopefully join us for dinner, so long as the babe cooperates.”

“Your husband is a midwife?” Mr. Hawthorne asks me. The air shifts in a subtle manner at the veiled insult within the folds of his tone, as if being a midwife were somehow shameful.

“My husband is studying to become a doctor,” I explain. “And as such, he is respectful of the knowledge and experience that a midwife and healer, such as my mother, can impart to him.”

Prim laughs nervously and Madge asks Rory how their journey was as we enter the house and servants are called upon to guide guests to their rooms. I abscond to the study and immerse myself in work. I will need to be charming and pleasant for dinner tonight and so I will need time to myself.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

I am given very little respite as, before long, my father interrupts me. “Katniss, I hate to interrupt, but Mr. Hawthorne wishes to see the estate.”

“It is late. Can it not wait until tomorrow?” I ask then snap my mouth shut as the impertinent prat himself enters the room.

“In all likelihood it could wait,” he says. “But I am never one to wait for tomorrow when a task could be completed today. Such a habit smacks of laziness.”

I believe he just called me lazy. Wonderful start.

“Very well then. I shall order the cart prepared. Shall you ride along or exercise your mount, Mr. Hawthorne?”

“A good exercise is just the thing,” he states and I curtsy before hurrying from the room to see to the arrangements.

It only takes a moment to wait for the cart to be prepared, yet it feels an eternity. Noise from the stables draws my attentions and I enter to find Mr. Hawthorne examining Sagittaria, Johanna holding her by the bridle.

“And you exercise her daily?”

“I wouldn’t usually have to,” Johanna explains. “Except this fine beauty belongs to Mrs. Mellark.” I clear my throat to draw their attention.

“Mrs. Mellark, you have a fine horse here,” he clicks his tongue at her and Sagittaria snorts at him in protest. “Quite free spirited. Have you any trouble handling her?”

“None,” I say.

“And she only one of several fine mounts in your stables.”

“None of which are to be part of the estate,” I remind him and he eyes me for a moment before Mr. Hawthorne finally unhands my horse. Johanna has turned away to hide what I suspect to be laughter.

“Your conveyance awaits, Mrs. Mellark,” Rory declares as he pauses in the doorway to bow at me. “If you can tear yourself away from the horseflesh, Gale.”

I sweep past Rory and only vaguely hear him mutter that Gale is forever distracted by horses and spent nearly their entire childhood in the stables or in the saddle.

Father hands me up onto the box and then Primrose. He hands me a list for the cargo loaded into the rear of the cart. “He might as well see exactly what is involved in maintaining the place,” Father says and I nod. 

“At least this will make it not be a waste of a trip.”

“Good girl. Chin up, Firecracker.” I smile at him as Madge emerges from the stables atop Diablo, Gale Hawthorne beside her on an unfortunately equally impressive black stallion, already engaging her in what appears to be a lively discussion of horses. Rory and Mr. Fremont follow on their own horses. 

We are a strange party. I wish that I could claim that I held on to my ire for longer, but I unfortunately do not. It is difficult to be cross with such beauty and natural delights to behold. As always, Everdeen, my home, awash in her spring glory, easily brings a smile to my face and a lightness to my heart.

“It is a fine view, is it not?” Prim asks and I turn to catch her smiling at Rory before dropping her gaze bashfully.

“It is indeed, Miss Everdeen. A most refreshing view.” His horse skips a few lengths away and I nudge my sister with my elbow.

“Have a care, Prim. The poor man will likely be befuddled with love before the day is out.”

“Oh I do hope so,” she breathes and links our arms. “You do not despise him still?”

“No, I think not. He appears to be kind and sensible...and smitten with you,” I tease and she curls into me. “And there is something to be said for his constancy in writing to you for such a long time now.”

Mr. Hawthorne asks a great many questions as we follow the roads. Tenants greet us as we deliver the items in the cart and collect items in trade. Time is spent sharing news and well wishes. Mr. Hawthorne watches it all with a critical eye.

“You seem eager to acquire Everdeen,” Madge remarks at one point as I carefully guide the horses and cart through a rather large section of muck in the roads.

“I had thought to auction it off in pieces, but my most recent business venture was such a success that I am considering retaining the estate and doing the same with it.”

“And that would be?”

“Improving it, turning it into an exemplary farm.”

“You find it deficient thus far?” I ask and he brings his horse to ride beside me.

“I find it mediocre, Mrs. Mellark, as many an estate that handed down through generations of a single family tend to be. The expectancy of inheritance dulls any feelings of ambition, the desire to make improvements and so many estates are left to languish or fall into lethargy, disrepair when they could be thriving.”

“Where exactly was your last venture?” I ask instead of contemplating his other words. Unless I am mistaken, though, the question brings a blush to his cheeks.

“Mining. Copper in Northwestern Panem and diamonds abroad.”

“Diamonds? Truly?” asks Prim. She turns to Rory with a smile. “Did you try your hand at diamond mining, Mr. Hawthorne? You made no mention of such in your letters.”

“Rory turned out to have a nose for it. At least for the diamonds. He would not admit such a thing to you, as he is far too humble,” Gale states and I refrain from stating that humility is clearly not a family trait.

“So then your experience is not at all in farming.”

“No, yet it does not seem so complicated. A bit of seed, a touch of harvest. Nothing to it. Not nearly so complex as mining.”

“Oh it is far more complicated than that,” Madge says with a beatific smile. Mr. Hawthorne frowns at her.

“Have you farming experience? Were you not a countess?”

“I was but I am no longer.”

“Surely a countess can afford to pay others to do her farming for her,” Mr. Hawthornes says and Madge’s cheeks flush brightly.

I steer the conversation back to how exactly Hawthorne intends to improve my home and how successful mining could possibly translate to successful farming.

“The trick was the workers,” Mr. Fremont explains. “They were underfed, underpaid, needing medical care in some cases. Gale provided those things and the investment turned into a success shortly after.”

“Tis only human decency. How can one expect a man to do anything well if he is starving or otherwise maltreated? Generations of inheriting what amounts to the livelihood of people, of expecting an unholy amount of sacrifice from so few.” Politics quickly enter the discussion and I am uncertain exactly how we ventured down this path. “There is a sense of entitlement that poisons the gentry and the nobility. It is what caused the war in France, part of what caused England to lose her colonies, and if we are not careful, Panem will follow next into turmoil and strife.”

“You are interested in preventing conflict then, Mr. Hawthorne?” I ask. “Would a mine that produces metal ores not profit from such a thing?”

“Of course it would, Mrs. Mellark, but the profits would be short lived. Panem only engages in brief skirmishes when pressed to do so by her allies. We haven’t the might to support an extended engagement such as several of our neighbours. Such a conflict would cause the owners of mines to further burden their workers with longer hours and higher expectations to produce. Conditions would turn from dire to bestial.”

“We are guests, Gale. No one wishes to discuss politics when there are such lovely sights.” Rory attempts to calm his brother’s rant, but it has little effect. 

Darius has far better luck. “It helps that there are those willing to correct the transgressions of the past.”

“It may only slow the march towards internal strife but cannot stop it,” Gale states and then, thankfully, he does cease his talking, and yet he remains in a quiet sort of rage. For my part, I feel a strange sense of triumph. 

Mr. Hawthorne fancies himself a hero of the people, rescuing the common man from the indifference or even cruelty of the upper classes. He thinks to rescue the tenants of Everdeen from such a fate. What then would he think if he saw that those who live on Everdeen land are never mistreated nor left in the cold shadow of indifference. What would he think if he knew that the landed gentry who own Everdeen sweat and work right alongside her tenants, go without during lean years as do her less fortunate.

It is with great joy that I conduct them about the estate and converse with several tenants. Handing out the goods my father sent forth, hearing complaints and rectifying any immediate problems that I can.

Eventually, we reach a row of houses that causes my heart to speed a little.

“The Farrow family lives here,” Prim remarks and I only nod. Peeta should be here. I spot Cicero first, tied in the shade of a lean-to next to Mother’s horse, Thistle.

“Great jehoshaphat. How does a tenant farmer have such a beast? May we stop?” Gale asks, not waiting for an answer before urging his mount forward at a faster pace.

“Mr. Hawthorne…” I begin and then a great screaming of woman in labor rises up from the walls.

“Oh! The babe has not yet arrived,” Madge announces unnecessarily. “We should continue on and leave them to it in peace.”

“Try telling that to Mr.Hawthorne,” I say and urge the horses to move faster.

As quickly as it rose up, the cry dies down. As we approach, the door opens and Peeta emerges. His coat has been removed and his sleeves rolled up past his elbows. He moves with purpose to a water pump in the yard, filling a bucket with a handful of forceful pumps. Setting it aside, he then pumps more water onto his hands and quickly cleans them. Gale slows his mount near the gate and calls out to my husband just as Peeta splashes a fair quantity of water over his face and hair.

“You there. You reside here?” Peeta sputters and wipes his face clear then looks up at Mr. Hawthorne on horseback.

“Not directly. This is the residence of Martin and Kate Farrow,” Peeta says as I finally catch up to Gale and bring the cart to a halt. Peeta turns his eyes to mine with a strained smile. I can see he is weary, worried. The birthing must not be going well.

“And the new babe, husband? How fares the child?” I ask and Gale turns his mount a bit too sharply, forcing Peeta to step back. He maneuvers around the pawing stallion and passes through the gate towards me.

“Hopefully better now that we’ve turned them the right way. It could still be several hours though. I may miss dinner as yet.” 

Peeta grasps hold of the side of the cart, using only his arms and his good leg to pull himself closer to my height. He must be terribly worried and distracted to have snubbed Mr. Hawthorne so easily. Peeta’s gaze sweeps over me and I smile as I whisper to him.

“And you, my love? How do you fare?”

“Infinitely better now that I’ve seen you.” He places and hand over mine on the seat and gives my fingers an affectionate squeeze that I return. “Your mother insisted I take some fresh air before we continue. I should go and relieve her so that she may do the same.”

Mr. Hawthorne then clears his throat in a rather annoying manner.

“Might I trouble you for an introduction, Mrs. Mellark?” I scowl slightly at this. As a man of near equal rank to Peeta, he could introduce himself. But he is our guest and I am endeavouring to not anger him so I change my expression to a smile. Peeta blushes, properly chastised for his lapse in manners and once more lowers himself to the ground.

“Forgive me. My husband, Mr. Peeta Mellark. And quite soon it shall be Dr. Mellark. Husband, this is our prestigious guest, the illustrious Mr. Gale Hawthorne and his companion Mr. Darius Fremont. Oh and Mr. Hawthorne has a fondness for horses. He was ogling Cicero as we rode up. Perhaps you might show him off later.”

“Or now if your patients can spare you,” Mr. Hawthorne suggests.

Another scream rises up then and Peeta glances back at the hut. “I would be delighted to, but I’m afraid they cannot. I’ve tarried too long as it is.”

“Pity,” Mr. Hawthorne says and shifts in his saddle, tipping his head back to look at the sky.

“Perhaps later, Mr. Hawthorne.”

“We shall leave you to your task, then husband,” I say softly. Something strange flickers in his eyes as I lean towards him, presenting my hand to him, strangely needing one last touch before I depart, or perhaps it is that I sense Peeta needs it and would never ask me for such a thing, encumbered as I am with so many guests. 

He grasps my hand to gift me with a kiss on my fingers, despite the presence of our guests, and I know we will have much to talk about tonight. 

“I will see you back at home,” he tells me.

Such a simple phrase and yet as the spring breezes dry his hair, I cannot help but think of how far we have travelled together since our first meeting a year ago. I can only nod as he releases my hand, calls out a farewell to the rest of the party before he picks up the bucket of water and hurries back inside. 

As we set off again, Mr. Hawthorne continues to turn about and stare from whence we came until I become annoyed with it.

“I assure, Mr. Hawthorne, you will be granted an opportunity to examine Cicero. He is a remarkable horse and I am certain my husband will oblige.”

“Yes, Gale, she is certain her husband will oblige,” Mr. Fremont says. There is something strange in his tone and Gale clears his throat before turning his mount at last to point in the direction in which we travel.

I continue to act as a guide, pointing out various features of the land, explaining the crops we grow and so much more. At one point, a break in the trees along the roadside reveals one of my favorite sights of my home. And today… today it is beyond perfection.

“Oh,” Madge breathes. “I had forgotten how lovely this meadow is in the spring.”

I had not. It is a rolling sea of green grass, dotted throughout with vibrant yellow and orange blooms, and yet I see it now through different eyes a warm joy filling my breast as I run a hand over the swell of growing child. How I wish I could raise our children here for always. Since I am uncertain that I shall be able to, I intend to pluck joy from every moment that I can. I beg a favor of Rory and he is swift to dismount.

“Only one,” I beg and he moves carefully to not trample any before plucking one lush orange bloom and handing it to me.

“Will this suffice, Mrs. Mellark?”

“Perfectly,” I tell him and then continue the tour.


	31. Chapter 31

I dream in vivid hues, of a blanket spread in a meadow, a feast laid out upon the faded red expanse. A girl with blue ribbons in her flaming hair laying on her back, a book held aloft over her face. The flowers bow in the wind, dancing and courting springtime airs. A girl with dark hair in a pink dress twirls amongst the tall green shoots of meadow grass. She hums to herself and then sings a few bars. A boy on chubby toddler legs attempts to join her and falls, his blonde curls shimmering in the warmth of sun. A blade of grass caresses my cheek and calls my name.

“Katniss, my pearl.”

I inhale and startle slightly, calming as I wrap my fingers around Peeta’s, and hold his touch against my cheek.

“Sorry, my love. I did not mean to wake you. You only looked so peaceful and happy that I…” he trails off and does not finish, withdrawing his hand and turning away from me.

“I meant to stay awake and wait for you,” I say and shift to sit up as Peeta sits on the edge of the bed. The lamp still burns as proof of my intention, the book I had been reading carelessly dropped on our sheets. I retrieve it and mark my page before setting it aside. His shoulders sag as he removes his boots. They land on the floor with dull, hollow noises. “Will you not call for Jeffries?”

“I can manage well enough without disturbing his sleep as well.” My heart warms at his consideration for others and I reach out to touch his back. There is no response to the caress.

“Is Mrs. Farrow well?”

“As well as can be expected, after more than thirty hours of child labor with a child who was breach.”

“Thirty hours?”

“They waited to summon me until her pains were undeniably regular. By the time I reached her, she had been at labor nearly twelve hours already.”

“She must be exhausted,” I say pathetically. Peeta only nods, his hands working the buttons on his waistcoat, his motions slow and laborious. I am almost afraid to ask, but I must. “And the child?”

“A son. Weighing perhaps seven pound. Remarkably healthy after such an arduous arrival.” He removes his waistcoat in a pained movement and tosses it across the room towards the sofa. I pluck at the coverlet, at a loss as to why he seems so distant.

“That is cause for celebration, is it not?”

“Indeed.” He stands then and removes the rest of his clothing without looking at me. He drags his night shirt on, sets aside his false leg, then sighs as he slides beneath the covers with me. I adjust my body to be close to him.

“Then why do you seem morose?” I ask and reach out to play with a lock of his hair.

“I am tired, Katniss. So very tired.”

“What would help?”

“Sleep.”

“Other than that?” I pry, determined that he will answer me.

“Nothing. Will you talk me to death or will you allow me sleep?” he bites out the words and my hand stops mid caress. He turns away from me, forcibly removing my touch from him. “Would you extinguish that light?”

I bite my lip and hold back tears. Why tears? I wage a mental battle, determining which would be more effective, braining him with a pillow or shouting at him that he is not the only one of us who has had a long and trying day. Either option would certainly be more effective than  _ weeping _ .

Before I can decide what to do, he sighs. “Katniss...I am not myself. I am sorry. I should not be curt with you.”

He turns in the sheets again to face me, closing the distance between us and wrapping his arms about me. My anger still festers, although I am quickly losing my grasp on it.

“Peeta, you know—“

“I know. I am sorry. Tell me about your day and then perhaps I will be ready to speak of mine.” He takes my hand in his and lifts it to his lips. “I do not even wish to consider what dark places my mind would wander, had I not seen you this afternoon. Thank you for that.”

I hum in annoyance. “Most unfortunate. I do not wish to owe any sort of debt to Mr. Hawthorne.” With some prompting from Peeta, I explain that Mr. Hawthorne was the reason for our outing this afternoon. I wax perhaps overlong about his arrogance and disdain, for his obtuse views of Everdeen and how I intend to show him how wrong he is. 

“I do not know how that will help us in the end, but it seems the best I can do for the tenants. At least Father took the more traditional view of entertaining and took the gentlemen to the study after dinner rather than forcing me to continue entertaining… did you eat, husband?”

“I managed something in the kitchens before I came up here.” I frett for a moment and he waves me off. “I’ve not the strength for another trip. Sustenance can wait until morning. It is good, though. What your father did. Then you were allowed a respite, however brief.” 

I snort at this, but Peeta’s words do comfort me. He has a point. Since Mr. Hawthorne and his party brought no additional females to the house, I was not forced to play hostess the entire evening but allowed to relax in the company of Prim and Madge, at least for some time before the gentlemen interrupted our tranquil and intimate gathering.

“The strange thing is that as talkative as he was all afternoon, Mr. Hawthorne was equally as taciturn this evening. He hardly said a word unless asked a direct question.”

“It sounds as though I may have had the more enjoyable evening, in terms of the company we kept.”

“Madge saved the evening for me. What with Prim mooning over Mr. Rory Hawthorne and… Oh,” I groan and place a hand over my face. “I had no chance to speak with Madge.”

“Tomorrow,” Peeta says with a wide yawn. “For now… sleep.”

“What of you, husband? Will you not tell me of your troubles?” I needle him and kiss beneath his jaw. He releases a strained puff of air and squeezes his eyes shut tight.

“I am still unconvinced that I am suited to this. To being a doctor.”

“Why not? You are patient and skilled. You listen well and are keenly observant. Generous and kind--”

“And I am frightened.”

“Frightened?” I ask, incredulous. “Of what?” It is difficult to imagine Peeta, who so expertly wields his knife, has killed men in battle, who has mended others while under fire, who faced down a highwayman, as being afraid of a birthing.

“Mrs. Farrow is well but it was a near thing. Katniss...Katniss,” he moans and the sound is so tormented that it near breaks my heart. “I cannot lose you. Childbirth is such an ordeal, so often dangerous. I do not know what I would do if I lost you. I… I do not think I should be the surgeon delivering our child.”

“Your worries make sense,” I say, although my throat is choked with hot tears, even as I brush aside the ones he is so clearly trying and failing to keep inside his eyes. “You were the attending physician for the first time today, and it was not a smooth birth, but it came out all right.”

“With a great deal of luck,” he mutters.

I should soothe his doubts, but in this state, I am not certain that he would listen. “Hmmm. It appears that you suffer from unfounded doubts,” I say and he scoffs lightly. “As your devoted personal healer, I prescribe at least six hours spent abed with your wife. Perhaps half a dozen kisses, and tomorrow, a picnic.”

“And how do you propose I achieve these six hours of sleep when it is nearly dawn already?”

“By sleeping late,” I whisper and I bask in the brightness of his smile.

“We have guests.”

“Damn the guests. Madge can entertain them.”

Peeta yawns then and holds me tighter. I find his hair with my fingers again and begin to toy with the curls anew, caressing his nape, kissing up and down his neck.

He rises up and a small squeak of surprise leaves me as he covers me with his body, my lips with his. “I thought you were tired, husband.”

“I am. Not too tired to appreciate you, wife. I missed you today. You’ve a strength and courage I cannot match.”

“You flatter me shamelessly.”

“No. I love you shamelessly,” he whispers and I sigh into the kisses. “Let me drink of your courage, my pearl.”

I do not understand his need, only that I am somehow able to fill it, and so I kiss him. I kiss him until I am certain our lips shall be bruised in the morning and still I kiss him more. He holds his weight off of me with one arm, his leg holding me beneath his warmth and his other hand wandering the curves and valleys of my body. His fingers raise goose flesh and desire as they slowly slowly slide between my thighs. I relax beneath his touch, eager to feel his fingers on my intimate flesh.

“Papa,” a soft whisper reaches us as Peeta halts, his body rigid against mine and then he whirls around. I attempt to order my hair and halt the thundering of my heart, swallow back my frustration at the interruption of our passion to smile at Miranda.

She stands beside our bed in her night gown and slippers, her hair escaping the braid Sae attempted to give her tonight. She is twisting her fingers about and looking almost frightened. 

“Papa,” she says again, “Is the baby here now? The one you went to take care of today?”

“Y-yes,” Peeta stutters. 

“So you will be at home tomorrow?”

“Unless I am needed again. And I will have to go check on the mother and the new babe. Would you… would you like to go with me for that?”

“I would,” she nods and then turns to leave. Peeta’s entire body lurches towards her.

“Miranda,” he calls out and she spins back around, scrambling into the bed with us and straight into Peeta’s arms.

Somehow, the three of us end up in an embrace, a tangle of limbs and love, with Miranda’s hand on my belly. The babe pushes out against my womb then, hand or foot pressing back against Miranda’s hand. Her eyes widen and I smile at her.

Shortly after, I see Miranda back to her bed, insisting that Peeta remain in bed as he’s already removed his leg and I’ve already gotten some rest this night.

When I return to bed, Peeta grunts and I am convinced he has fallen asleep in my absence, even though he encompasses me in his embrace as I settle. I, however, am now wide awake. I lay there for a moment, touching him in the darkness, thinking on my dream, the one I was in the midst of when he woke me. I start singing, only a whisper of the melody. I grow drowsy and then finally follow Peeta into sleep.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Even before we rise, Peeta is called away again, this time with a knock on the door. I drag myself to it to answer, ready to flay the intruder for disturbing our precious sleep, only to be met with worried eyes and frantic words.

An entire family that has fallen ill. Feverish and with rashes. Fear of measles makes Peeta hasty in leaving me. He pauses only to explain to Miranda that it is not wise for her to accompany him today, if it does indeed turn out to be measles. She is disappointed, but insists that she understands.

“Your husband is absent again today?” Mr. Hawthorne asks as we ride across Everdeen much later, in search of a place to picnic. Peeta returned after seeing to the ill family, only long enough to bathe and change his clothes, to prevent the spread of disease when he went to attend the new mother and her babe. He’s had no time for guests today.

“I think it noble of him. Admirable,” Rory states. “Rather than leaving the tenants to fester in squalor and disease as some would, the family has found a way to see to their needs quickly, providing a capable surgeon, no less!”

I send Rory a grateful glance and Prim is especially pleased. Mr. Hawthorne turns away from this comment and asks Madge a question about Diablo. I do not hear it, but I do hear her answer.

“He is not mine. I’ve only the use of him while I stay with Katniss and her family.”

“You’ve a question about one of my horses, Mr. Hawthorne?” I ask.

“He no doubt is inquiring after potential studs, are you not, Gale?” Mr. Fremont says, bringing his horse close to Gale’s.

“You know that I am,” Gale states rather curtly before turning to me. “One venture I have long wished to embark on is a horse farm. I only recently find myself in a position for it to be feasible.”

“And you’ve your eye on Diablo as a potential stud? He’s not for sale, nor up for inheritance,” I say simply.

“Everything is for sale, for the right price, Mrs. Mellark. But I must admit you have several prime stallions in your stable. Perhaps you might consider a stud fee for them. In that way, you and I could both achieve what we desire.”

“I doubt that our desires could ever be reconciled, Mr. Hawthorne,” I state and immediately regret it based on the scowl he sends me. Oh, I am failing so miserably at earning his good graces and yet I cannot seem to help myself. There is something about him that grates on me, or perhaps it is simply this power that he will hold over me one day. His position to inherit my home.

“Where would you set up such a venture?” Madge asks, and I am grateful for her diverting his attention.

“Oh I’ve a few prospects, although I am still in negotiations. So many landowners are loathe to part with their holdings for anything less than a ridiculous sum, even when they find themselves mired in debts.”

“Patience and perseverance,” Mr. Fremont states and I bite my tongue.

Thankfully, we approach the pond on the border between Everdeen and Undersee lands before more can be said. All agree that this is an excellent prospect for our picnic.

Madge assists me in lowering myself to the blanket and I squeeze her hand. “Are you certain this is acceptable?”

Her eyes flick towards the ruins of her old home, the manor overrun now with vines and foliage, reclaiming the stone for the earth.

“I will be alright. I suppose I must face it at some time, especially if I intend to do anything with it. What about you?”

“Madge,” I whisper, “There is something we need to speak about.”

“Is the lake stocked?” Mr. Fremont interrupts and Madge turns to him with a smile.

“It was last I was here, five years ago. The fish have been left quite alone since then.”

“Some of Everdeen’s tenants may have availed themselves of a few fish,” I admit and give an apologetic look to Madge. She places a hand on mine and then continues to set up the feast we’ve brought.

“Does that anger you, Mrs. Mellark? I am curious...what is the punishment for poaching on Everdeen?”

“A turned cheek and an adjustment to either taxes or payments, Mr. Hawthorne. We’re farmers, not tyrants here,” I say happily and smile at him. “I have no wish to begrudge a family a few fish or a hare caught in a time of need.”

Mr. Hawthorne tilts his head and says something to Mr. Fremont that I do not hear, but I do see that his scowl has shifted somehow. Perhaps Mr. Hawthorne can in fact be reasoned with after all.

“I’ve no idea what the occasional fishing would do to the population,” Madge says as she rises and approaches the gentlemen. “Perhaps we shall simply have to make an attempt at catching a fish to find out.”

It quickly becomes apparent that she will stay near them and converse while they attempt some fishing. I resign myself to not speaking to her yet and to reading my book, as Prim also seems to prefer Rory’s company close to the lakeshore.

Miranda and Maysilee wander over to the ruins and climb about them. Laughter is bright in the air. At one point, I catch Mr. Hawthorne smiling and the expression changes his face entirely.

It makes me think again on my tactic, of showing to him how Everdeen is not the squalor and hopeless destitution of so many other similar estates. I care about our tenants. Peeta cares about them. My father has always cared about them. We are not in the business of crushing anyone beneath our boots, nor of squeezing every penny possible out of them.

Eventually, the day fades and we return home for dinner, with a handful of fish the gentlemen have caught, which are promptly delivered to the kitchens. I am grateful to have Peeta with us for dinner as we dine on the fish. Even though the presence of guests necessitates that he not sit beside me, his mere presence helps calm me and I am able to entertain rather well, I believe.

Even later, as I wander past the study door and catch a few words of heated political discussion, I am not overly angry. I may be forbidden from the conversation because of our guests, but I know that my husband will represent us both well.

The discussion seems to continue over chess that evening, when Mr. Hawthorne is taken with a desire to play. I smirk and hide my glee behind my book. Mr. Hawthorne has no idea what he is in for. My kind, patient husband is a master strategist and deliciously devious at times. The game drags into the evening, and although there are other entertainments, music and singing with Madge and Prim providing the bulk of the merriment, my attention is riveted to Peeta.

“Your husband is fond of chess?” Mr. Fremont asks as he settles beside me.

“Yes, he is,” I answer easily. “Are you Mr. Fremont? Or do you share your associate’s obsession with the horse?”

“Not nearly so, I am afraid. I’ve always been fond of a good riddle or a harmless jest. Gale is much more business minded. I am merely a friendly face who assists in helping place others at ease in his presence.”

“He does seem rather formidable,” I mutter and flip my page, leaving my finger behind because I truly did not read the entirety of the text.

“He can be, but...would you believe if I told you he is truly tender-hearted and exceptionally loyal? He cares a great deal for others, and those who are close to him receive the best of protections.” I make a disbelieving noise and Mr. Fremont lowers his head. “He is a rather sore loser, however.”

My eyes glance over the chess board and I smile slightly. “Then I think he is about to dislike my husband as much as he dislikes me.”

“He does not dislike you, Mrs. Mellark. He is simply...uncertain as to how to interact with you.”

“Hmmmm...suggesting that I have neglected my tenants is a grievous misstep, if that is the case.”

“Ah, well that may be faulted to his passionate nature. At times, he speaks without remembering to whom he speaks. He means no harm by it, only possesses the belief that his views are more common sense than opinion, which makes him overly vocal at times.”

“Such poor manners.”

“Well when you put it that way, I suppose he can be a bit of a boar,” Mr. Fremont says with a chuckle. “How badly is he about to lose? I do not know much about chess. Perhaps I should learn.”

“Are you certain Mr. Hawthorne is a fair player? He is about to lose shamefully fast.” Mr. Fremont hums.

“I’ve been led to believe he is quite skilled at it.”

“Perhaps he is distracted. I’m sure the prospect of seeing a fine horse can do that to him.” Mr. Fremont’s fingers clench rather tightly on the stem of his glass of brandy and he tosses the rest of it back with a high sort of flush on his cheeks.

“Yes. Easily distracted. Nothing more.”

“Checkmate,” Peeta murmurs, removing his fingers from his queen. Mr. Hawthorne glowers and then...miraculously laughs. He reaches out a hand and congratulates Peeta on the game.

“There are not many who can best me so quickly,” Mr. Hawthorne states. Mr. Fremont coughs rather loudly, drawing the gazes of the two men from across the room.

“I believe I shall turn in,” Mr. Fremont says.

“Yes,” Mr. Hawthorne agrees and waves carelessly. “Another game, Mr. Mellark?”

“I’m afraid I must decline. It has been two rather long days of work for me.”

“Your stallion…”

“I shall make my morning rounds swift and have time to show him to you in the afternoon,” Peeta states. “Will that suffice?”

“I look forward to it,” Mr. Hawthorne says.

Peeta stands from the table and I set my book aside, looping my arm with his as we leave together. As we turn the corner, I am certain that I feel eyes boring into the back of my head.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

“Is this the flower you spoke of? Before we were married?” Peeta asks as I sit waiting between the covers. He spins the bloom between his fingers and gazes with wonder at the orange petals.

“It is,” I answer. I placed it in a glass filled with water the day that I asked Rory to pick it from the meadow. Peeta and I have both been so occupied since then that I’d nearly forgotten, and he’d not noticed until tonight.

“So soft and delicate. Beautiful,” he murmurs and meets my gaze. The heat I see in his blue eyes captures my breath and gives it back to me in a racing heartbeat. “Thank you, my love.”

“I knew you would like it,” I tease him. “You’ve a weakness for beautiful things.”

“Having an eye for beauty is no weakness, my love,” he says and then climbs atop the bed, the flower still clenched in his fingers. “Except perhaps when it comes to you.”

He is so close, his eyes hooded as he sets the flower on my lips and traces them carefully. “Soft petals to soft petals… take off your gown.”

His last words are not soft and I shiver but remove the garment with haste. Then… then there is no haste but there is great beauty in the way he loves me.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

In the morning, I am feeling empowered and well rested. Facing Mr. Hawthorne across the breakfast table is not such a chore with the memories of Peeta’s lips on me, his arms surrounding me, his whispered promises and the petals of my gift for him caressing my skin as he worked to bring] us to climax so swiftly.

After, he had placed the flower back in its glass with a sweet smile on his face, and I knew that I would forever be searching for gifts such as this for him. An orange flower, a set of paintbrushes, a favored book, to bring a smile to his face and his kisses to my lips.

I catch Mr. Hawthorne staring at me in an unnerving manner, near enough to rude to warrant my returning his stare with a scowl until Mr. Fremont elbows him and Mr. Hawthorne finally looks away.

“Wedded bliss becomes you,” Madge whispers. “Or perhaps it is pending motherhood that becomes you. Either way, there is jealousy afoot this morning.”

“I cannot imagine why,” I mutter back and she glances at me then away with such speed.

“Can’t you?”

“Madge...we never spoke the other day--”

“What are the plans for today, Mrs. Mellark?” Mr. Hawthorne interrupts and I grind my teeth. To think that I was starting to find him tolerable or at least reasonable last night. “How shall we entertain ourselves until Mr. Mellark returns with that magnificent beast of his?”

“Perhaps a visit to Seam and the village.”

“Excellent.” The plans decided, we scatter to prepare. 

Primrose and Rory decide to remain at home, with Mother and Father. Dr. Aurelius is feeling well enough to have accompanied Peeta in attending to their patients this morning. Mr. Fremont begs off on riding with us, claiming a rough night of sleep.

With our diminished party, we set out for Seam, the three of us. I am not overly fond of sitting alone while Madge and Mr. Hawthorne ride ahead of me, conversing to one another. His presence has prevented me from speaking to her. Whenever the moment has felt opportune, he has either interrupted or she has escaped, making me wonder perhaps if she is avoiding me.

Could she know that I was outside the stables that night? All of my worries suddenly feel as though they are piling up on my head and so I am in a foul mood all through our shopping and tour of the village. The only good thing to come of it is how astonished Mr. Hawthorne is by the way Madge and I are both received.

“Did you find hints of uprising, Mr. Hawthorne? Unhappy villagers feeling the crushing weight of mistreatment and oppression?” I ask and Madge gives me an oddly quelling look. I shrug as he makes a noncommittal noise.

“No obvious hints, Mrs. Mellark. But it is spring.”

“Which immediately follows the leaner months of winter.”

“Perhaps,” he allows, and yet I fancy that there is something speculative, almost impressed in his eyes now. I dare not hope yet that my tactic is working however. As soon as we return to Everdeen, I am handed a note written in Peeta’s hand. I tear into it and reach for Madge.

“What is it?” she asks and I hand it to her as I hurry inside, ignoring her as she reads it aloud.

_ Harriet Nells lost this morning. ~P _

No other words, only this brief sentence to tell me that the child he was tending, the one with the measles...is dead. 

“Sae! Mrs. Chilton!” I shout as I move through the hall. Servants spring into action. Food is prepared. My mother bundles herbs and sets out immediately with others to see to the cleaning and airing of the hut, the funeral arrangements as the parents are both still ill.

A child has been lost.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

There is no mention of horses, nor of inheritance for the rest of the day. Even Mr. Hawthorne pitches in to help. The day fades into evening and all who left to assist slowly return to Everdeen. The child has been bathed and dressed. The grave has been dug and Father Crane called upon. She will be buried in the morning.

I sit on the verandah, listening to the evening bugs and waiting for my husband, wondering that he stays away. Johanna stops to check on me and places a reassuring hand on my shoulder.

“He’ll not take it well. Losing one so young. So needlessly.”

All I can do is nod and wonder at my husband’s mental state. Eventually, Johanna leaves me to my vigil and another arrives. A cleared throat causes me to turn my head and look askance at Mr. Hawthorne.

“I beg leave to intrude, Mrs. Mellark.”

“It will be your verandah one day,” I say simply and turn my gaze back to the lane.

“Yes. About that...it has occured to me that I may have erred in my initial assessment of Everdeen.”

I snort and bite at my thumb nail. Where is Peeta?

“You see, as much as I love my brother, he can be rather naive and kind hearted.”

“I fail to see how that is a flaw.”

“Perhaps the flaw was mine. I did not entirely believe him when he first described Everdeen. It made little sense. A welcoming farm of middling importance and small operation allowing so many to wander here in need. And you...rushing off to Capitol to seek a husband and a fortune to secure your future. Naturally, I assumed you must be hiding some sort of dire financial situation.”

“If this is an attempt at an apology, Mr. Hawthorne, you fail miserably,” I state and he laughs. Actually laughs.

“Perhaps so. I have never excelled at apologising.” He carefully sweeps back the tails of his coat and sits beside me. “May I speak freely?”

“Make yourself at home, Mr. Hawthorne,” I state with an imperious look and he cannot hold my gaze. “As you’ve repeatedly noted the past few days, it will all be yours one day anyways.”

“It is precisely that which I wish to speak with you about.”

I sigh and wait for him to continue. He will continue unprompted if he has something to say, I have discovered.

“I feel as though you and I have gotten off on the wrong foot.”

“Whatever gave you that impression.”

“Mr. Fremont for one, and for another… Lady Charmaine.” I hum and he again clears his throat. “There are other factors as well. You must understand, I’d reason to doubt Rory’s description of this place.”

“Then why trust him to the task?”

“I was unable to travel here. I was… needed elsewhere. And as I said, I was in disbelief that you, who seemed so sensible and practical, level headed and forthright in your letters, would rush off to secure a stranger as a husband. Why bring an unknown into the equation when a perfect option that would see everyone’s needs met was right in front of you, given how keen you seem to retain Everdeen.”

“You talk in riddles, Mr. Hawthorne. Of course I wish to retain my home. What human with a heart would not?”

“Apologies. That would be Darius’ influence, I am afraid,” Mr. Hawthorne states with that smile that transforms his face. “You see, Mrs. Mellark, it’s been made apparent to me that it is time I take a wife. My first and obvious choice would have been you, since I cannot be present at all of my properties at once and you would have made an excellent and knowledgeable steward.”

“Pray, do not flatter me so,” I say even though I know I should hold my tongue. Besides, I’ve gone utterly cold at his words.

“A marriage between us would have solved all your troubles. You however, chose to do otherwise and somehow, despite the haste of it all, managed to secure a marriage to the son of a marquis anyways. I congratulate you on your excellent catch, by the way.”

“You’ve no need to tell me how fortunate I am in marriage. I am well aware of it.”

“Yes, but the simple truth of it is, your needs in terms of Everdeen would have been met more swiftly had you been patient and instead married me. It was in fact my intention to do so and I think that now that we are acquainted, your own haste annoys you.”

I glare at him. How dare he!

“I am...accustomed to speaking plainly and am told that sometimes this makes me appear abrasive. I do however hope that we are able to put that aside in future and work together towards a solution that is acceptable to both of us. I’ve no desire to toss such a welcoming family out in the cold.”

“Well,” I state, the rancor dripping off my tongue. “As you pointed out, I managed to snare myself an exceptionally excellent catch. His wealth ensures that I will not be cold, even if you should toss me out of my home.”

I’ve more to say, but the sound of hooves on the gravel and the snort of Cicero reaches me then. I excuse myself and hurry past Mr. Hawthorne. Peeta sways precariously in his saddle and I gasp as he nearly falls. Jo and Charles are swift to respond and manage to halt his descent, but it is Mr. Hawthorne who manages to safely see him to the ground, albeit laying down.

“Peeta,” I say frantically and check him over for injuries. He appears merely dazed and exhausted. I scold myself for not realising sooner how close to despair he was getting. “Peeta look at me.”

“Katniss,” he murmurs. “I lost…”

“I know. There was nothing else you could have done.”

“Wasn’t there?” he asks bitterly.

“Do not torment yourself so, at least not on the front stairs.” Others have joined us now and I give directions to have him carried to the bathing room. Charles to take care of Cicero. I demand Jo accompany us. I’ve no need to say the words, though. She is there without question.

“Thank you, Mr. Hawthorne, we will see to him from here,” I state and push him out of the bathing room once Peeta has been deposited. He makes to protest and I shut the door in his face before turning back to my husband and guiding the procedure of seeing him undressed and into the steaming tub.

“Have you seen him like this before?” I whisper to Jo as I wash his hair.

“Only the once,” Johanna whispers. “When he could not save Daniel Merritt. The boy...he was seventeen and newly married. Shot through his throat. Then…while Peeta was trying to stop the bleeding… the enemy grabbed Daniel’s foot, dragged him away and shot him in the gut. Peeta… followed and got too close to their line...” she trails off and I do not ask for the rest. I merely point to his scarred ribs and she nods. 

We work together, and by the time we have him clean and the water drained, he is lucid again, although silent. He obeys my words as I order him out of the tub and dried. It is a bit of a trick, getting him upstairs with his leg already removed, but my father lends assistance.

Once we are left alone, I begin the longest vigil of my life.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

In the morning, Peeta is staring at me. “You think me weak.”

“I think you care far more than a human heart should be expected to bear,” I whisper.

“You do not understand.”

“Perhaps not. Perhaps I never can. But I do know that however many you have lost, there are dozens more that you saved, and will save. The boy you brought into the world only days ago. Mrs. Farrow. There will be more. Do not deprive them before they’ve had a chance to survive under your care.”

He almost laughs at that and then shakes his head. “You’ve a way with words, wife.”

“I learned from you, husband, and only give to you what you have given to me.”

“And what have I given to you?”

“Hope.”

“There is no hope in the Nells household right now.”

“Of course not. Not yet. But there will be. It will take time, and great care, but life can be good again some day, even for them. Even for you.” I stretch across the bed and press a soft kiss to his lips. “And now, I mean to distract you from your worries.”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

I’ve little luck in distracting Peeta the next day. We are somber as we travel to the church, dressed in dark clothes and silent through the funeral. Peeta remains withdrawn the rest of the day after, no matter what I do to cajole him out of it. Eventually, I desist and settle for holding his hand in mine whenever possible. Holding him in my arms as we sleep that night. I wish for this awful day to end, and although I am granted my wish, I still wish that it had not been so long. I cannot imagine the pain Mr. and Mrs. Nells must be experiencing, especially now that Peeta says they are on the mend.

Two days after the funeral, we are to resume pleasantries and entertainments. The day dawns warm and sunny in cooperation. Peeta left our room before I even woke and I worry about him.

“Ah, Mrs. Mellark,” Mr. Fremont greets me when I leave the house after breakfast. “May I accompany you?”

“I am only headed to the stables,” I say and he falls into step beside me. I hate to snub him, he seems an amiable and kind enough sort, and yet I have decided that since I’ve not been able to pin Madge down to a discussion, that I shall confront Johanna.

“Your company will brighten the day,” he states and I can’t help the smile or the blush.

“You flatter a married woman, Mr. Fremont.”

“Tis no crime to acknowledge beauty. Your husband, I am sure, would agree with me.”

I am momentarily cheered by the flattery, although I know I should put a stop to it immediately. I do not feel as though Mr. Fremont means any harm by it, although now I will need to find a way to lose him if I am to speak with Johanna. I am still searching for excuses when we enter the stables, only to find ourselves intruding on a demonstration.

I am both annoyed and relieved at the sight that greets me.

“Magnificent. Such a powerful beast,” Mr. Hawthorne states with great awe as Peeta holds Cicero by the bridle for inspection. Madge and Johanna are nowhere to be found and I come to stand beside Mr. Hawthorne and listen to their discussion. He glances at me and then clears his throat. “Who is his sire?”

“Cicero has no famous sire,” Peeta says.

“I suppose his lineage is from ancient destriers, then.”

“His lineage is uncertain. He’s something of a mutt.” 

“And how is he at obeying commands? Obedient, I hope,” Gale says with admiration.

“In a way,” Peeta says with a smile and then touches Cicero on his neck, the way I know now that Cicero takes as a command to bow. He does so.

“Extraordinary. Verbal commands?” 

Peeta shakes his head. “No, I’m afraid not.”

“Cicero cannot hear, Mr. Hawthorne. He responds purely to touch,” I interrupt.

“Does he now?” Mr. Hawthorne says. His gloved fingers flex in an odd way and he smiles as Peeta steps to fasten Cicero’s saddle. 

Nimble fingers pluck his gloves from his hands as Mr. Hawthorne motions towards Cicero. 

“Might I at least give a try? He is most extraordinary.” Peeta obliges, but Mr. Hawthorne cannot seem to gain a response from Cicero, even with Peeta’s guidance on how the commands work.

“Stubborn or…”

“Merely well trained,” Peeta contradicts. 

“You’ll have little luck, Mr. Hawthorne. Cicero and my husband are kindred spirits. His deafness necessitates that he respond to a very specific touch, and only that touch.”

“So how does he respond to other riders, Mrs. Mellark? Does he enjoy them or torment them?”

The question confuses me, as well as its direction at me. “I’ve never had problems with him, but he is familiar with me. If you’re looking to try a horse from our stables rather than your own mount, perhaps Guinivere. She is docile enough to adjust to any number of riders.”

“Not today, I think,” Mr. Hawthorne says dismissively, eyes still fixated on Cicero. “I find that a stallion provides a more...vigorous ride. Don’t you, Mr. Mellark?”

“I’ve not ridden many mares, so I’ve no comparison,” Peeta says.

“Indeed?” Mr. Hawthorne asks, and he sounds a little overly excited for the subject. Mr. Fremont must have underestimated Mr. Hawthorne’s interest in horses to me the other day. “Shall we then, Mr. Mellark? I am eager to see him in action.”

“We’ve plans already, Gale,” Mr. Fremont states. Mr. Hawthorne turns to him and scowls slightly.

“Can they not be rearranged?”

“We are guests,” Mr. Fremont reminds him. “We should not cause so much trouble.”

“It is no trouble,” Peeta says and I smile at him. He returns the expression. There’s a strange shyness in his gaze and I wink at him, making him blush.

Mr. Hawthorne ends our flirtations with another attempt at gaining obedience from Cicero. Blessed, loyal horse that he is, Cicero snorts and sidesteps, agitated with the unfamiliar touch and then immediately calmed at Peeta’s.

“Apparently he does not wish another rider,” Mr. Fremont states. 

“Here you are, Mr. Hawthorne,” Charles interrupts as he presents Mr. Hawthorne’s horse, already saddled. “All ready for you.”

“Excellent. A hard ride is exactly what I think we all need this morning. Darius, shall you join us?”

“Am I welcome to?” 

Mr. Hawthorne flicks his gaze at Mr. Fremont and then smoothly mounts his horse. Darius mutters under his breath and quickly moves to join them. It is only as I follow on foot, Peeta mounted on Cicero that I spot Madge in the courtyard. She too is mounted on Diablo and I scowl at how they’ve managed to exclude me. The cart has not been ordered.

I am festering in annoyance until Peeta circles back to me and, halting Cicero with a particular press of his knees, imperceptible to any who do not know the commands, leans over in the saddle. Despite the audience, Peeta’s gloved hand threads through my hair and he kisses me.

I suck in a sharp breath at the blatant display, but I cannot stop my heart pounding faster and louder than galloping hooves. I cling to the sleeves of his coat and when he lifts his head again, I am breathing in a ridiculous fashion.

He smiles at me, and whispers against my lips before he turns Cicero. “You deserve a rest from entertaining, my love. I haven’t forgotten, you know. I am still the luckiest bastard in the world.” 

I watch him riding away as long as possible.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The days fly by. Nearly the whole seven night has passed and soon the Mr.’s Hawthorne will depart. I cannot say that I am upset over it, and yet something foreboding hangs over my head. There are days when Mr. Hawthorne barely speaks, silently observing all he sees. There are others when he rants interminably, and I wonder if it would be rude to stuff goose down in his meats to silence him. He is slightly more tolerable since our talk on the verandah. Although he still has yet to broach the subject again of a solution that would suit us both, at least he refrains from disparaging myself or Everdeen.

Thankfully, it is not all dire news. Miranda blooms, speaking more freely and laughing with great joy. Primrose and Rory appear to have solidified their courtship. Father has given his approval for it to continue into the season Prim will attend come winter.

And yet...I still have not managed an audience with Madge. She is perpetually busy or absent and even Maysilee has expressed concern in her behaviour.

Two days before our guests are to depart, I hide myself away in the garden to read, delighted when Madge joins me, her footsteps steady on the gravel.

“Madge, finally,” I say as I set aside my book. “We’ve need to talk.”

“Yes, we have,” she says and swallows. It is then that I notice how pale she is.

“Oh Madge, you know how I love you. You can tell me anything, whatever it is that troubles you.” I smile at her, surprised at the strength of her grip as she takes both my hands in hers and lifts her chin.

“And I hope you can forgive me anything as well.”

“Of course I can, but there is nothing to forgive” I insist. I am not prepared for it when she stares into my eyes and speaks.

“I am to marry Mr. Hawthorne next month.”


	32. Chapter 32

With those words, any hope I had been holding onto that Madge felt she could trust me with her heart’s secrets dies. I had been waiting for a confession and instead she announces her engagement.

“Marry...Mr. Hawthorne?” I choke out and Madge’s smile slips from her face.

“I… I thought you had warmed to him some.”

“A little, but...marriage?” I shout and Madge sighs.

“Yes, marriage. Can you not be happy for me, as I was for you?”

“But… why?” I ask and attempt to order my thoughts. “You hardly know him. He is an ass!”

“No worse than many a man of this world and certainly not near as bad as the Earl.”

“That is not exactly a glowing recommendation.”

“Katniss, please. He is a gentleman of fine family and good fortune. Perhaps a bit rough in manner but nothing that cannot be polished. I thought you two had developed a sort of intellectual banter that might lead to friendship. And… and I cannot continue to be a burden to you.”

“But you are no burden!” I protest.

“Not yet, perhaps, but it is inevitable. The longer I stay here, the more likely it becomes that I will cause you problems.”

“You do not love him!” I sputter and she gives me a wry look.

“And you did not love Peeta when you married him. Look at how well that turned out. It all depends on what the parties expect going into the marriage, and there are many advantages to our union. There’s no reason why I can’t be happily married to Gale.”

“Gale? Now he’s Gale?” My heart clenches in my breast and I know I squeeze her hands too rough as she tries to remove them from my grasp.

“Well I am to marry him.”

“What about Johanna? You would discard her so easily?” I ask, and Madge jumps back from me.

“What has Johanna to do with this?” She hisses the words, her eyes narrowing. “Why would a stable hand have any bearing on my marriage prospects?”

“Because you love that stable hand!”

“Even if I did, it would be impossible to do anything about it.”

“We can find a way—“ Madge’s bitter laugh stops me and she finally manages to free her hands from my grasp.

“Oh Katniss, you have no idea what you’re talking about. Stick to farming and not judging my choices again. Some of us haven’t the luxury of a picturesque happy ever after, so forgive me for grasping at the closest I can get!”

She spins about and leaves me gaping in confusion and heartache.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

“He is a canting knave! A scoundrel of the worst sort!” I rant as I pace the floor and Peeta makes futile attempts at calming me enough to sit. Now that I have unleashed a few of my grievances, they all come tumbling out. “How  _ dare _ he! Presuming to know anything about me or my home or my family, instructing me on how things should be as though I were a wayward school girl and not a woman grown. Acting as though he already owns Everdeen. I have poured my blood, my sweat, my tears, my very soul into this earth! And here this jackanape strolls in, telling me that all my problems might be solved if I had married him, all while he is maneuvering my dearest friend into a marriage she does not want! How can she? And now… now he’ll have both Willow Park  _ and _ Everdeen, the bastard!”

“And who are you to give him that name when it belongs to me?” Peeta asks and I scowl at him. 

“You are my husband, my love. I am endeavoring to not insult you anymore by not calling you that name.”

“Mmmm, but on your lips, that word has become almost an endearment to me.” He manages to grasp hold of me then, and wraps me in his arms, entangles me so that I’ve no choice but to sink onto his lap. No choice and yet I do not want one. There is nowhere else I would rather be, as a sense of calm and clarity washes over me as we settle together in the intimate posture. 

“Are you jealous, husband? At my calling Mr. Hawthorne that term?”

“Not yet,” he whispers and rubs the tips of our noses together. “Should you still be thinking of him, even if it is to curse him, later this evening when my mouth is between your thighs...then I might be jealous. Until then…”

He trails off and kisses me, and I am powerless and without motivation to stop it. I nearly laugh at the thought of how much I love kissing my husband. Should it be so? This happiness and harmony of mind and body and heart with another being? I am lost in it before I can so much as take a breath.

Until I remember that Madge will once again find herself in a marriage without such joy as this.

“You are distracting me from my worries,” I manage to say when he shifts to kiss along my cheeks.

“Is it effective?”

“Not yet,” I tease. “Perhaps you should skip straight to your mouth between my thighs.”

His smile is beautiful as he stops and brushes back my hair. I sigh and shift beneath his scrutiny, unable yet to allow myself to be completely distracted from my quarrel with Madge. 

“You did not see her face. She looked as though she might be sick. She cannot be happy with this.”

“It cannot all be a disaster. I cannot imagine Madge entering a union without good reason. She’s not desperate. Perhaps it was your anger she feared, more than her nuptials. She knows how much reason you have to dislike him, to distrust him. She knows he is to inherit Everdeen, and how would it look, her marrying him so quickly and gaining her closest friend’s home in the bargain.”

“She would not. I cannot believe Madge capable of such greed. She already has Willow Park.”

“Neither can I believe it of her, but Katniss, there must be a _ reason _ for this. You know it. I think Madge may be more aware of what she is doing than you are giving her credit.”

“How?”

“I do not know. It is only an intuition right now. I’ve no proof. We will simply need to be patient.”

He is right. I can feel that he is. I’ve only let my fears and my anger run away with me, but Peeta, as always, provides the steadiness I need to aim my thoughts and feelings in the right direction. There is, in my memory, the tickling of a conversation. Madge’s desire to see Willow Park restored, as a home of her own perhaps. This I can understand, and Mr. Hawthorne is wealthy enough to see the deed done. Is it possible, then, that Madge simply conducted her own fortune hunting expedition? If so, she was much more expedient about it than I was. And how can I judge her for doing the same as me, for attempting to secure a future and a home for her and Maysilee? I cannot. I rest my head on Peeta’s shoulder, heavy with my own thoughts.

“You think I was too harsh with Madge.” I state it because I think I was too harsh with her, and so Peeta  _ should  _ think it as well.

“I think you should ask her what her reasons are. Without shouting at her.”

“I did not…” I start to protest and then stop, guilt threatening to choke the words right from my throat. “Alright, perhaps I did shout a little.”

He hums in agreement, his lips distracting me as he kisses my neck. 

“I will speak with her again. Calmly this time.” There is still hope to sway her. She and Mr. Hawthorne did not announce their engagement today. Until it is officially announced, I am not certain I can believe she will go through with it. There is nothing that I can do about it tonight. “Oh very well...distract me if you must.”

Peeta laughs then helps me stand and together, we hurry to our bed.

After, as I lay across his naked form, wrapped in his arms with the heat of his chest warming my back, his hands caressing idly over my form, a divine sort of content making my limbs heavy and sleepy, he kisses my temple and speaks once more.

“He is right about one thing, you know.”

“Who?” I ask, watching Peeta’s fingers follow the swell of our growing child. 

“Gale Hawthorne.” I stiffen in his embrace and yet Peeta continues. “Had you married him instead, Everdeen would be yours without question.”

“Would you rather I had? Married him instead of you?”

“Are you fishing for compliments, wife?” he asks and I turn to scowl at him.

“No, I think that you are.”

His smile is still bright but something wavers in his eyes before he swallows and whispers to me. “You know I would not wish that for the world. Katniss, my love. I never dreamt I could be so happy with anyone as I am with you.”

I feel myself melt towards him and he lifts one hand to turn my chin towards him.

“I love you. Beyond life and reason.” A kiss and a soft sigh. “But he is right.”

“No. He is wrong. Everdeen would be mine, but...It is as you said the other night. It is pleasant to think you and I would have found our way here anyways, no matter the circumstances, but the odds of that happening differently… Such a thing is not a certainty. No, I do not wish I had met him before you, nor certainly not that I married him. For then, I would have missed out on something far more precious to me than even Everdeen.”

Peeta’s eyes widen at that and I turn to kiss him more fully, that he might taste the certainty in my lips as well as hear it in my words.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Madge remains resolute. Even as I make attempts to speak with her, she withdraws from me. An announcement is made and congratulations are offered. Plans are made.

The clergyman’s cottage remains mostly intact on Willow Park. A few repairs should bring the dwelling up to a standard suitable for a couple to live in comfortably while the repairs are being conducted on the manor itself. Mr. Hawthorne does not intend to stay in the area between now and their nuptials.

“I have pressing business to attend in other parts of Panem. It would be unseemly to travel with my fiancée unchaperoned.”

Mother extends the invitation to Madge to stay with us, but she declines. Within days of the announcement, Madge has hired a housekeeper and a groundsman, a married couple, to live on the premises with her and Maysilee. Shortly after Mr. Hawthorne and his party departs, Madge and Maysilee move out of Everdeen.

Perhaps one good thing to come out of their engagement is that with the family resuming residence at Willow Park, Madge will be able to hire a new cleric, offering a second option and saving the village from the necessity of attending Father Crane’s sermons. Hopefully Madge can find someone with a more open mind and less slimy arrogance.

Peeta departs for Capitol, although he is reluctant to do so. I insist that he go as planned, to sit his exams. When he leaves, he once again urges me to speak with Madge, to visit her in her new home. I know that I should. I should not let such a vital and long friendship die soundlessly. And yet I cannot bring myself to order the cart. Madge has made it clear that for whatever reason, I am not welcome. I cannot fathom how it is that I managed to fail her so abominably.

With him and Madge both gone, I bury myself in work. A field destroyed by what appears to have been a herd of rabbits provides a timely distraction. Miranda’s education often takes a decent amount of my time and we read voraciously through one book after another. She begins to read to me, in a slow halting voice that follows my finger beneath the words on the page. I walk long hours across the hills of Everdeen. I prepare for the arrival of our child. The plants continue to grow. The rains continue to fall and the sun shines in its turn. I often find myself contemplating the moon and wondering if Madge and Peeta are doing the same.

Johanna is no more talkative on the matter than me. The one time I attempt to speak with her about it, she insists she has no desire to stick her nose into the business of the Quality. I have a hard time believing that, but she will not be moved to speak.

One morning, I lift my hand to knock on Miranda’s door, to ask her if she would like to help me in the gardens. The sounds of quiet cries startle me. I gently push the door open and peer through the crack. There are books spread across the floor and a rag doll with cornsilk hair sitting in a chair at the table, a cup of tea and a biscuit in front of it. Miranda is splayed across the bed, crying into Odysseus’ fur.

I shut the door and finally allow a few tears of my own to fall. Then I order the cart prepared.

“Miranda...would you like to go and see Maysilee for tea?” I ask through the door when I return, the cart waiting for us. My words are met with a great crashing of noise. She flings open the door, her eyes puffy and red and hopeful.

“Today?”

“Right this instant,” I tell her.

I feel more wretched with every step the horses take towards Willow Park. With every excited, breathless word that leaves Miranda’s mouth, I find myself drowning in a veritable flood of verbiage, after so many months of her silence. It is more damning than Madge’s distance and more painful than Peeta’s gentle encouragement. The proof that I have neglected my daughter, the way my mother once did to me, as my father lay ill and unresponsive. Oh the things that silence and neglect drove me to do last year.

Work is progressing on the rebuilding of the manor, the area has been cleared, cellars dug and the foundations begin to take shape. Miranda points out the changes as I drive us to the cottage.

“Miranda! Aunt Katniss!” Maysilee shouts as she runs full tilt from the gardens surrounding the cottage. Dirt stains her pinafore and she clings to Mud the cat. When did she begin referring to me as an aunt? I’ve no idea and it splits my broken heart further open.

Our daughters embrace at the gate as I carefully climb down from the cart. It is a trick with no mounting stone and no one to assist me. I stumble and manage to grasp hold of something solid to keep from planting my face in the dirt. Madge exits the cottage just in time to witness my near disgrace.

“Katniss,” she says, holding a hand over her eyes to shield her face from the sun as she wears no bonnet.

“I hope we are not intruding. Miranda has been missing Maysilee.”

“Oh,” Madge says with a nod. “Will you...stay for tea then?”

The invitation is issued and tea is served in a sunny front room where we can watch our girls play through the window. The woman Madge hired bustles about, setting out the tray and then leaves us in silence. Only the ticking of the clock and the sounds of girls at play break the strain. I do not even know how to begin, for I do not even know how I failed her.

“Peeta is in Capitol as I understand? For his exams?”

“Yes,” I say, unable to hide the confusion on my face.

“Primrose writes to me, and visits on occasion.”

“Oh.” More guilt. My sister has been a better friend to Madge than I have.

“I think she is hoping for bits of news of Rory and hope from me that she cannot glean from his letters,” Madge says simply and I smile, the feeling forced. “How is it going then...for Peeta?”

“Very well,” I say. The words feel like ash on my tongue and I cannot reconcile the sudden sorrow I feel with the happiness of the news I impart.

No, I know the reason. We speak now as two strangers, rather than the best of friends. What happened to us? Gale Hawthorne happened to us. Anger and resentment unfurls in my breast at how deeply he impacts my life, even when not present.

“I am glad to hear it. Hopefully he will return to you soon. I know how you must miss him.”

“Madge,” I say and she turns her head to look out the window.

“And your parents? How do they fare?”

“Well enough. Madge… are we to avoid speaking of it?”

“I do not know what more I can say on the matter. I am marrying Gale Hawthorne in less than a month. I hope my dear friend will be there to congratulate me.”

“How am I to congratulate you when I am not convinced of your happiness?”

She snaps her eyes shut and breathes out through her teeth. “Katniss...there is more to happiness than love. We cannot all afford to have your romantic sentimentalities.”

“But--”

“Please trust me on this. I cannot...I cannot be open yet. There is more than my secrets at stake here.”

I stare at her, and while her answer tells me nothing, I do feel something. Some measure of relief in knowing that Peeta somehow understood it before I did. That Madge does indeed have some reason for her hasty engagement to Mr. Hawthorne, for marrying him at all.

She sighs and reaches for me, withdrawing her hand before she touches me and instead fiddling with her hair.

“You took me in after years of silence, with no questions asked, and you’ve no idea how much that means to me. I am asking you now to let me go with no questions and trusting that I know what I am doing.”

Her request hurts, but how could I possibly refuse. I manage only a nod of agreement.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Peeta returns home, tired but successful. The professors of the medical college are pleased with his progress and excited to continue his training. They claim that his inclusion in such an early class of students will be a boon to the science of medicine as he brings a unique perspective.

“I am proud of you,” I murmur that night as we lay in our bed, my cumbersome form a nuisance and a barrier keeping me from kissing him the way that I want to, keeping Peeta from loving me the way that I want him to.

Although I can tell he is aroused, he rebuffs my advances. “We do not want to risk sending you into early labor,” he insists as he restrains my wandering hands.

“The sooner this child is born, the better,” I complain and he laughs, kisses each of my cheeks and then my nose.

“There’s a recovery period after, my love. Somewhere between one and two months, depending on the difficulty of the birth.”

“Two months!” I shout and he laughs. “You will love me for a week straight after the two months, husband.”

“I wouldn’t dare, wife,” he says and kisses me soundly on the mouth before extinguishing the light. “You would exhaust me.”

“You would enjoy it,” I quip and he chuckles softly against my neck.

But despite the levity that I sometimes feel, there is a constant shadow. My friend. My sister in my heart. Day by day, despite the fact that we seem to have reached some sort of truce where we visit and bring our daughters together as often as possible, I feel her growing away from me. We do not speak of her wedding at all. Our conversations barely qualify as more than chatter.

The manor at Willow Park slowly rises out of the ashes. The construction brings new work to the district and wandering souls begin to make their way here seeking employment in such a fertile region. Johanna announces one day that the stables at Willow Park have been built and that she has been hired on as their stablemaster.

“Is that wise?” I ask Peeta as we stand in the doors of Everdeen and watch Johanna ride away on her nag, only a small sack of belongings to her name. She is under no contract with us and so is free to leave, but that is not my concern. I fear the potential for strife in a house where her lady love is married to another.

“I think I begin to understand,” Peeta says and then does not have time to elaborate with Miranda careening across the yard, chasing a flock of clucking chickens. 

“I was thinking…” I begin and wait for his touch on my back, an encouraging rub in a space that has ached for over a day now. “I was thinking of giving Diablo to Madge. As a wedding gift. Father is in agreement. What do you think?”

“I think it perfect,” Peeta says. He watches Miranda for a moment then kisses me and leaves me to attend to his patients for the day.

“You’ll never catch them like that!” I shout after Miranda and then follow to show her. I cannot move as quickly as usual, my steps laborious and my wide frame only an advantage in blocking the occasional escape.

One squawks loudly and flutters her wings. Miranda jumps back in fear, colliding with me, and we both fall to the ground.

“Oh!” I cry out as a sharp pain screams up my spine.

“Mrs. Mellark!” Sae shouts and hurries out to help me up.

“I am fine, only my pride bruised. Bested by a hen,” I mutter.

“All the same, your mother or Mr. Mellark should have a look at you.”

Mother declares me to be fine, but at dinner that evening, a sharp pain lances across my belly. I am able to hide it, although when it happens again as I sit in the drawing room after, I think perhaps I should mention it to Peeta. I decide that if it happens again, I will tell him. We are now only a few days out from my expected time. The babe could arrive any day now. 

Tomorrow is Madge’s wedding. The invitation sits on the table in the hall, the answer already sent. I wonder now if we should have declined, but I couldn’t bear to do it, not after I was unable to attend her first wedding, and not with our friendship still on such unsteady grounds. She asked me to trust her and so I shall have to find it in me to do so.

When no more pains plague me that evening, I relax and tell no one. It must not be time yet.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

“Oh!” I gasp out as I awaken from a disturbing dream. A dreadful fog blotting out the moon and the stars until all was black. There was more. Something about Madge, but I lose it in the pain. I drift between dreams and pain, writhing in the bed until I wake Peeta.

“What is it, Katniss? A nightmare?”

“No!” I gasp and grit my teeth, grasping tight to his arm. “The baby.”

He is moving in an instant, up and checking on me, assuring me that nothing is wrong, only that I have gone into childbirth. In the space between several pains, he dresses, pausing only to see me through each pain as dawn creeps over the horizon. He sends for Mary, and for Mother. The house awakens and Peeta helps me walk across our room then back as Mother and Prim prepare supplies.

The room grows stifling and I beg for fresh air. The window is thrown open for me. I refuse food, unable to fathom eating through this pain.

“You will need sustenance,” Peeta urges, but all I take is tea.

The sun marches across the sky as Peeta murmurs to me. Prim leaves then returns at one point, dressed in a lovely blue dress with a green bonnet on her head. The wedding.

“Give my love to Madge,” I beg her. “Tell her I would have been there, and take my gift for her.”

“I will,” Prim says and kisses me on the cheek before she and Father depart. There is no need for them to stay when this could take all day. Someone from Everdeen should be present at the wedding, and so it falls to them.

Time plods forward. The sun begins to sink, and still no sign of the babe. The pain dulls to the background and then roars back to life, so harsh that I cannot even speak. I can barely catch my breath.

“It is time, Katniss,” my mother reassures me as she and Peeta position me on the bed, my legs spread wide. “You must bear down with each pain.”

I nod and scream with the first one. As soon as it passes, I meet Peeta’s worried eyes, down between my bent upwards knees. Were I in less pain, perhaps I would care that he now sees me like this, in such an undignified pose, but I have more pressing worries.

“Don’t,” I say and he shakes his head. “Don’t do that, husband. I am not so fragile as that.”

We agreed that when my time came, Doctor Aurelius would be notified but only called if the situation grew dire. I may feel as though I am dying at each pain, but there is still life pulsing vibrant through my veins. I do not feel myself fading at all. Peeta must see it too. Were he more detached from this particular birth, were this merely a professional call, he might be able to see it more objectively.

Peeta takes a deep breath and nods, his hand skimming reassuringly over my leg.

A commotion of horse hooves and shouting reaches me through the open window and another pain strikes. I do not even attempt to hold in the scream as I feel as though I am being torn asunder.

As the scream dies, the door to our room flies open and a storm of white silk swirls into the room, flinging aside a lace veil and perching on the bed beside me. The scent of summer roses fills my nose.

“Madge.”

“Katniss,” she says, tears in her eyes.

“I am sorry I missed your wedding.” She lets out a soft sob and then wipes a damp cloth across my brow. “You should be dancing with your groom. He will be so cross with me for this.”

“He will hardly notice my absence. More importantly, I promised I would be here,” she says instead and takes my hand in hers as I am once more consumed with pain. “With you.”

Three voices now murmur encouragement and lend me strength. Madge and my mother somehow hold my hands and legs so I cannot escape. I fixate on Peeta’s eyes. His face as the room goes dark and Mary lights candles. I collapse as the pain ebbs, and breathe like a fish out of water.

“Almost, my love,” Peeta whispers, his touch gentle on my knee. I laugh, the sound crazed as I lift my head to scowl at him.

“Soon you will have your child to hold,” Madge murmurs.

“Why would anyone do this twice?” I ask.

“You will soon see,” my mother says.

“You make it sound so simple. Would you care to take my place?” I ask Peeta.

“Would that I could,” he answers, and I can see in his eyes that he means it. He would take this pain away and into himself if he could. “As a wise woman once told me, it is far easier to cause death than to bring forth life.”

“Those were not my exact words, husband,” I remind him and he smiles.

“Close enough, wife.”

And then I am no longer able to speak, the pain is too great. And yet… a strange thing happens then, as I stare into his blue, tired eyes. The pain grips me and it is terrible terrible terrible...and then it is not. The voices fade and the pain is not so unbearable. There is almost… a relief in it.

“There you are!” My mother soothes. “We have the head. Now for the shoulders, Katniss. You are almost done.”

A few more minutes and Madge is kissing my temple, her tears mingling with my sweat, her words unintelligible but the tone of love clear. I am fading fast into exhaustion, and Peeta is focused on something I cannot see between my legs.

“Peeta,” I whine and he looks up at me as the squall of a baby fills the room. His smile is impossibly happy and I nearly burst with it.

“A daughter, Katniss. We have a daughter.”

Peeta slides one hand around my still exposed thigh, his palm warm and soothing on my skin. And then his lips against the tender skin of my inner thigh. A look of awe and love in his eyes. Soft tears seep from the corners and onto my skin. It is unbearably intimate and undoubtedly shocking, unseemly.

I do not care. His kisses like that as he cradles our child in his arm mean everything to me.

There are tears and washing. Soothing. Peeta and Mother take our daughter to be cleaned and tended, swaddled in warm blankets. I am carried to a tub brought up especially for this and scrubbed with gentle hands, redressed in a fresh gown. Food is brought. Joyous announcements shouted through the halls and then she is finally placed in my arms. I lean back into Peeta’s chest as I hold our daughter while she feeds and he holds us both. He cannot seem to stop touching her brow and her cheeks. I inhale her sweet baby scent and then his warm, manly scent.

Madge still sits on the bed with us, her wedding gown spread across the edge of the fresh counterpane, I think a few spots on her dress are stained. The hem looks almost ripped. Her posy of roses sits on the bedside table, already beginning to wilt.

“Madge,” I begin and she shakes her head.

“There is no need.” But there is a need. I know that now. I’ve a need to listen and she’s a need to be heard. She should have been able to tell me, and my own stubbornness and focus on Everdeen made it impossible. The words may wait, but I will say them.

“May I?” she asks when my daughter has finished suckling, and holds her arms out to me. I gently place my daughter in her arms and she rises from the bed, cooing softly.

“Will you be her godmother?” I ask and the tightening of Peeta’s arms about me tells me that he supports my request.

“Of course I will.” Madge smiles at me and nods. My heart lightens with the expression on her face as I know, all hope is not lost. Madge is still my true friend and while I still yearn for answers, I find that I can be patient. She then peers down at the wrinkled pink face of my baby girl.

“As soon as Prim told me, I had Diablo saddled and rode over here. Thank you for him.”

“He was already yours,” I say and she bites her lip as though holding back tears.

“I did not have a chance to dance at my wedding. Since you and Peeta did not dance at your wedding, I am taking it as a good omen. But I cannot resist such a lovely cherub.”

She sweeps into a delicate step, humming a tune as she dances with my daughter in her arms. And then I am crying uncontrollably.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Peeta insists that I sleep. I manage it, somehow, after demanding that he kiss me properly, despite the many people still lingering in the room. There is a rotation of loved ones to assist me in ways I’d never thought to need them. To hold my girl when my arms grow weak. Standing on my own is a trial. I’ve no desire to wear anything other than my shift and the bedsheets yet. Bathing and changing is a difficulty, as is relieving myself.

Our daughter is still new when family descends to meet her. My father is ridiculously soft with her. My mother showers her face with kisses once the duties of midwife are complete. Prim is delighted and already making plans for spoiling both of her nieces. 

“I expect a nephew next,” she tells me with a sly smile. “I doubt that you will make me wait overlong.”

“Come and meet your sister,” I whisper to Miranda, and watch her melt out of the shadows and clamber up onto the bed. Her fingers shake as she peels back the blanket and stares down at her face.

“Hello...sister,” she whispers and I lean over to kiss her fiery curls.

“Will you tell her stories?” Peeta asks, placing a hand on Miranda’s back and smiling down at us three.

“May I?” Miranda asks and I nod.

“I think she would like that.”

“So would I,” Miranda breathes. “But...what is her name?”

My eyes meet Peeta’s over Miranda’s head and he smiles. “We were hoping you might help us with that.”


	33. Chapter 33

There are days when I think motherhood to be the worst sort of bargain. When I am tired and sore or when the entire world frightens me. Disease, injury, deception, heartbreak, and so much more. How am I to protect my daughters, my Beatrice and my Miranda from all of this. There are days when the joy of holding her in my arms drowns out all else, when watching her and Miranda together or separately convinces me that I was never happy before I had them. My children.

The weather warms and the vivid flowers of spring and early summer fade to make room for the pale blue skies, the fading greens, and the heat that sings with insects only found in the midst of summer. I am eager for my recovery to be done with and count the days. Then… then I cherish the night. Nights with the windows wide open and Peeta hushing my sultry moans. We are unable to love in the physical sense as often as we did before. The presence of our babe sleeping in our room, the demands of raising two children, often curtail passion. Yet every time we come together, there is a joy in it that brings tears to my eyes.

I tease him that I long for another child, and yet he insists that we wait. He has some medical notion that repeated childbirth is too harsh on a body, and in the name of protecting me from such an ordeal, he prescribes the teas of my mother to suppress fertility. He uses the French methods of preventing pregnancy as well, despite my complaints that I despise having a barrier between his skin and mine. At times...when I am the most desperate for him, Peeta refuses to join fully with me at all and employs other methods of giving me pleasure. I cannot complain too much, as those are most effective at satisfying me and delightfully intimate as well.

Miranda, my dove. Her speech becomes a constant hum in our house. A thousand and one questions every day, a thousand and one stories. We discover that she has a knack for fancy sewing and while this means her drawing begins to wane, her stitchery blooms. She weaves them both, stories and embroidered scenes from colorful bits of thread into something strange and fantastical and wonderful. Mother sees that her work is framed and hung about the house. Father begins to request scenes or specific stories. He listens to her for hours and it brightens my heart to see her so loved and welcomed by my family.

As for our neighbors… Madge and Maysilee visit often until I am recovered and am able to return the visits. The work on Willow Park continues. Gale’s mother and two other siblings -- another brother and one sister -- come to visit. Half a dozen brood mares arrive, and then half a dozen more. Potential clients and investors keep Madge busy entertaining, and Johanna is in her element with so much equine flesh to tend to. Gale strikes a bargain with Peeta to use Cicero as one of his studs. It turns out that Cicero is something of a rake, and I tease Peeta mercilessly about the number of potential bastards his mount sires within a matter of months. Of course, the foals will not arrive until next summer, but Cicero continues to deliver. Peeta usually shuts me up by kissing me mercilessly.

I have few complaints about this arrangement.

Indeed, the only one I have is that Mr. Hawthorne appears to be a somewhat neglectful husband. He is rarely in the district, despite the realisation of his dream of owning a horse farm. Oh he stops in every now and then, but his other ventures often take him elsewhere in Panem or even abroad with Mr. Fremont, leaving Madge and Johanna to deal with the day to day operations of Willow Park. Although, Madge assures me that she and Mr. Hawthorne are always in touch via letters.

I keep waiting to see some sign of melancholy in my friend, some sort of distraught unhappiness, and yet it never arrives. In fact, if anything, her marriage appears to have only enhanced her beauty and happiness. I have the strangest sensation that her removal to Willow Park along with Johanna, and Mr. Hawthorne’s frequent absence is the source of such happiness. What mischief does she get up to when her husband is away, and what sort of husband seems so indifferent to his wife’s many charms?

“Why did you not tell me?” I finally ask her over tea one afternoon. When both her hired help are out running messages and errands in town. “Did you think I would...react badly?”

“I could not be certain,” Madge admits. “You’ve no idea how lonely it can be, feeling this way. When we were girls, I never quite understood my own feelings nor the reason why I felt so at odds with them. Then I left and married the earl and…”

She trails off and something occurs to me. “Your affaire, after his death...it was with a woman,” I whisper the words, even though we are alone save for Beatrice on my knee, and Madge laughs, but she is also crying. I set aside my tea and shift to hold her as well.

“You will think me horrid but I am so tired of carrying this. Yes! It was with Katharine, my… oh she was married to the earl’s son and we are the same age. I thought she was my friend. She was the only one who was ever truly kind to me in that wretched house. But her husband came home early from his club and found us together one night and…”

Her tears keep her from continuing, but I can make a good guess at the rest.

“Cry no more tears over him, my dear. He was cruel, but he was likely also jealous that you were a far better lover to his wife than he.” Madge laughs hysterically at this and lifts her head to smile at me.

“And you are not at all disgusted with me?”

“Mmm, no. Still a little curious about some things, but not disgusted. What happened to Katharine?” 

“She blamed me for her indiscretion and after I left...I am afraid to even find out,” Madge admits. 

I take her hands in mine then and wait for her sniffles to abate. “I love you, my friend, and I only ever want your complete happiness.”

“I am as close to it as I think I will be able to come, Katniss.” I nod at this. “Then, I shall have to make my own peace with it.” And I set about doing so.

Mr. Fremont is perhaps the most surprising addition to our lives. He writes to the Mellark family at Everdeen quite often, sharing riddles with Miranda that she delights in solving, presents for Beatrice, bits of news for Peeta and I. I am at a loss for how his is the hand that seeks friendship and yet it is so. He, of course, sends similar letters and gifts to Maysilee.

So little of it makes sense to me yet that perhaps it is my curiosity which leads me to a most unexpected place late in the summer… hunting in the woods of Everdeen with Mr. Hawthorne. Madge suggested it, as we apparently share a common interest in the sport. I suppose she is hoping we will somehow bond over it. Thankfully for me, Madge is unaware that hunting is best done in silence.

While this means that I’ve no opportunity to further my acquaintance with her husband, it also means that I am granted opportunity to observe him while not subjected to his tirades.

It is pleasant enough at first. Peeta was quite adamant I go when I attempted to cajole a refusal out of him instead. He insisted that the fresh air and exercise would do me good, to say nothing of the return to something that I have always felt comfort in doing. I pause a moment and tilt my head back to absorb the rays of the sun. He was right, my husband. Despite the questionable nature of the company, I needed this. Even if I catch nothing, I needed this journey into the woods, this breath of who I am and perhaps will always be.

“Fascinating,” Mr. Hawthorne murmurs and I sigh. The silence was of course too good to continue. I am simply grateful at this point that Mr. Hawthorne eschews the aristocratic hunting methods and does not favor hunting with hounds. I glance over at where he examines a snare. Not one of mine. I’ve never had much luck with snares. Perhaps one of my tenants, seeking a rabbit or squirrel for a meal.

“A snare,” I explain and he nods.

“Yes I know. A rather ingenious one. I wonder if…” he retrieves a stick and makes to spring the trap.

“Mr. Hawthorne,” I say and he glances back at me. “You would deprive a man of meat to fulfill your curiosity? Or do you know how to reset it?”

He thinks for a moment and stands. “You are quite right, Mrs. Mellark. I don’t suppose you happen to know the creator of this snare?”

“I’ve a few guesses. Some discreet inquiries might bring me the answer, although I warn you, they may not be willing to speak with an aristocratic stranger.”

“I have no title. I am not--”

“Not wealthy?” I ask and he glances down at his waistcoat.

“Perhaps I should adopt your habits of dress.” I snort at this but tug on my rough coat that I wear today. It is longer than one I would normally wear with breeches, as something about traipsing through the woods with a man who is not my husband whilst wearing breeches set off alarming thoughts in my head.

“You are not what you seem...are you, Mrs. Mellark?”

“I am exactly what I seem, if you are paying attention. You, however, are something of a puzzle. And our speaking will scare away the game,” I say as a scent reaches me. I attempt to place it, some long ago warning from my father taunting me just beyond the reaches of my memories.

Mr. Hawthorne huffs and then flings aside his stick.

“Don’t!” I shout as it crashes through the underbrush, arousing a terrible squealing noise. A boar thrashes the bushes and crashes out towards us. Mr. Hawthorne turns and shoves me against a tree. I cry out with pain at the impact as the wild pig careens past, snuffling and huffing, snorting in indignation as he turns again and prepares to charge.

I grab the nearest branch and haul myself into the tree. “Climb!” 

Mr. Hawthorne makes to follow me, but the pig is too fast. I settle on a branch and swing my gun about and take aim. The blast surprises even me, but the pig falls. The hairy body slides across the foliage and thumps against the tree. Right below Mr. Hawthorne’s dangling boots. With a final snort, the beast dies.

I release a great puff of air and Mr. Hawthorne drops to the ground next to it, stares at it then up at me in my perch.

“You’ve wild boar in these woods.”

“Do you always state the obvious?” I ask and he shakes his head, almost laughing as he tilts his head to examine my kill.

“An impressive shot, Mrs. Mellark. Right in the eye.”

“Luck,” I say and place a hand over my heart, attempting to quell the thundering of it in my chest. I’ve no reason to fear. I was perfectly safe.

“You saved my life.” He crouches to further examine the dead beast, to trace the gnarled tusks.

“Please, there is no need for dramatics.”

“I believe there is. You could have easily let the beast kill me and claimed it as an accident. No one would have doubted you.”

“Those who know my skill would have.”

“Please, Mrs. Mellark. You are barely recovered from childbirth. None would have blamed you for diminished skill in the face of a charging wild boar.” I snort and he grins up at me. “The fact is...you saved my life.”

“My friend is not even a full year out of mourning. I would not wish to constrain her again in such a state so soon.” He did also protect me from the initial charge, although that fact rather irritates me so I refrain from mentioning it.

“Not even if it meant she would be wealthy beyond reason and you would gain Everdeen for your children all the sooner?” he murmurs and my eyes snap to his in shock. “Ah. I see my wife has not seen fit to tell you all the details of our arrangement. Perhaps she wished me to tell you myself. Trust me when I say that we are in complete agreement on many things, and she is as satisfied with all aspects of our marriage as I am. Half of it was her idea.”

“You make no sense.”

“And you are in a tree. Come down and claim your kill. Your house and your tenants will feast well this week.” He stands, extending a hand up to me. And there is that smile, the one that transforms his face to one that is kind and almost flirtatious. Loyal to those he cares about yet with a fierceness still in his eyes. The sort of face ladies would swoon over and friends such as Darius rush to protect…

My mouth drops open as I stare at him, his hand hanging in the air between us as a suspicion begins to form in my head. And I decide that perhaps trusting Mr. Gale Hawthorne would not be so bad.

I snap my mouth shut and carefully place my hand in his. His grip as he helps me from the tree is solid and firm, yet I feel no thrill the way that I do when Peeta touches me so. I tilt my head now to examine him, the way Mr. Hawthorne did to examine the snare, then the dead pig.

“Shall we?” he asks, motioning to the dead animal with a smile. I nod and we set to work. Preparing the carcass to move and then creating a litter of sorts to carry it.

When we return to Everdeen, there is much fanfare and clapping. My father praises us for our catch. It is a joyous scene. Crowded and too busy for me to have a chance to ask Mr. Hawthorne what he meant in the woods, about gaining Everdeen for myself. Or about my growing suspicions.

“Should I be jealous now?” Peeta whispers to me after dinner. He has caught me staring at Mr. Hawthorne again.

“No,” I answer and smile at him. I begin to wonder if perhaps Peeta has no reason at all to be jealous in regards to Mr. Hawthorne, but I do instead. “I was merely attempting to sort through a puzzle.”

“It will come to you,” he whispers and kisses my hand. I am still sorting through the threads of conversations as we sit in the drawing room after dinner that night. Darius is flushed and perhaps a little drunk, having toasted to Gale and Mrs. Mellark, the founders of the feast, a few times more than is necessary. It was indeed a delicious meal, but his cheer seems to evaporate when Gale demands a rematch at chess. He and Peeta move towards the table. Mr. Fremont collapses in a chair beside me, swaying a bit and seeming to almost brood.

“You’ve still had no time to learn?” I ask him and he nods, rather morose for being left out of a game. I set my book on my lap, uninterested in reading if I might learn something from him or confirm my growing suspicions. Besides, I selected my book at random, more as a screen to provide me with privacy in a crowded room, or to observe unnoticed those around me.

Then something strange happens. Perhaps I would not even notice, it happens so quickly, except that my senses and mind have been so focused on my quarry all day that it stands out in sharp relief.

A piece knocked from the board, Peeta’s king, as they reset the pieces from a game left unfinished by other players. Peeta bends to retrieve it. My eyes follow the motion, half admiring his shape, and yet somehow I catch it from the corner of my eye… Mr. Hawthorne leaning to the side, eyes closely following Peeta’s motions. At first, I excuse it as Mr. Hawthorne ensuring that Peeta does not somehow cheat, but how could he with such a move? It is chess, not cards.

As my husband takes his seat, glances are exchanged. The heat of a blush and the grinding of teeth beside me. An embarrassed look away. Madge happily running her hands over the piano keys and chatting with Prim, unaware of her husband’s wandering eyes, of the almost jealous and contrite exchange happening between her husband and the man beside me…

Or perhaps, she is completely aware of them. Something falls into place in my head as Mr. Hawthorne clears his throat in a rather undignified manner. Then he focuses on the game. Sensing a new sort of hunt, I turn to Mr. Fremont with a smile.

“I must confess that I’ve made attempts to learn chess, but I’ve still no patience for it. The swift hunt is much better for me.”

“You were quite swift today, or so Gale tells me.”

“Fortunate,” I say, waving it off. “With instincts honed by a desire to protect that which matters to me. As I think many of us in this room wish to do.”

Darius makes a strange noise as Mr. Hawthorne laughs across the room and I lift my book to hide my own blush. How extraordinary. Well...if he wishes my husband’s attentions, he will have to come armed with more than a handsome face and a ready laugh. I smile slyly at Mr. Fremont and he lifts one eyebrow at me.

“You wish to protect Gale? I was not under the impression his life would be important to you.”

“Not at the moment. How could I possibly wish to protect someone with designs on all that is...mine.” He barely responds to the pause, but it is there. Not that I can blame Mr. Hawthorne, if I am correct about his preferences. I feel the thrill of the pending kill, a much less violent and far more satisfying one than what happened in the woods today. “Although, I feel as though we’ve built a sort of tentative trust today. No, it is Madge whose welfare I am concerned with.”

“She has everything that she could want in her life, and in her marriage.”

“Does she?” I ask and lean closer. Almost too close as I whisper. “Do you, Mr. Fremont?”

He swallows and searches my face. A-ha! I think. Peeta would be quite proud of me, managing to glean such information and reassurances without shouting or dramatics. I lean back in my seat and lift my book to read and no intentions of doing so.

“Sometimes patience is indeed the key to the hunt, and other times, one must act. Swiftly, without mercy. The trick, I think, is to know which is the more appropriate action, and to have the right sort of allies,” I say.

“Mrs. Mellark...” Mr. Fremont says as he leans towards me, the flush on his cheeks shifting from an angry red to an almost boyish pink. 

“Katniss,” I correct. “If we are to be friends and neighbours and allies with common interests, then you must call me Katniss.”

“Common interests?” he ponders and I let my eyes slide over to the chess board.

“Harmless flirtations are one thing, so long as one returns to their home untarnished at night, but… I would do anything to protect two of the people who mean the most in the world to me. My husband, and my dearest friend. There is no patience where keeping them safe is concerned. I sense that you are a kindred spirit in this regard, Mr. Fremont.”

“Darius,” he says and I let my book lower slightly. He smiles at me, but his eyes are still on Mr. Hawthorne. “A name for a name, Katniss. I believe it to be a fair trade. And a good foundation for an alliance.”

I cannot help but smile as I nod in agreement. His grin is quite infectious. There are things that Mr. Hawthorne and I may never agree on, and some that we do. As long as he continues to care for Madge, and not harm anyone else that I love, then I believe I might be able to forgive his arrogance, though perhaps not his shameless ogling of my husband. 

“Now tell me...are you interested in  _ The Ancient Craft of the Sarcophagus _ out of a morbid sort of curiosity, or should I be concerned for any members of our party?” Darius’ eyes drop to the cover of my book and I glance at the title printed at the top of each page, nearly laughing at the humor of it.

“A true lady, as my Aunt Effie would say, can keep the darkest of secrets into her grave and on into the afterlife, Darius.”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

It is strange, sometimes, how the truth can mean a lightening of hearts. Life continues in a happy manner as the harvest approaches. There is always work to keep us busy, amusements to keep us fulfilled. Peeta and I resume our daily rides, and I laugh with joy as Sagittaria carries me away on swift feet. I am unable to resist temptation the day of that first ride, and when we stop for a picnic in a wide meadow, I find myself arched beneath my husband, his hands buried in my hair and the blanket beneath me, the sun on his back, my hands scraping down his spine. The smaller flowers of early autumn and the tall grasses sway about us, concealing us from the world, and the clouds above us provide a tableau of beauty to reflect the beauty in my heart.

My daughters continue to grow and to thrive. My friendship with Madge is repaired and a source of comfort and happiness now. I miss her presence at Everdeen. Her and Maysilee brought a sort of brightness to the halls, but Miranda and Beatrice bring their own sort of brightness, and we never go too long without seeing one another.

Unfortunately, the happy circumstances of Willow Park and Jo’s employment with the new horse farm has left Everdeen stables in a quandary. Giles needs to retire and Charles is learning quickly but still too young to assume such responsibilities.

“Before Jo left us, I thought to hire her to the post,” my father explained when he put out word that Everdeen was seeking a stablemaster. “But now that she is gone, I will have to hire someone else.”

“Father…” I stated warily and he’d shaken his head. “How long have you known?”

“Not long. I’ve no anger over the matter, Katniss. I wish you had trusted me, and I am embarrassed to admit that I did not figure it out on my own. Your mother had to tell me. The only thing that matters to me now is that we find someone young and skilled enough to replace both her and Giles.”

Which leads me to the events of today. I fuss over Beatrice as she crawls about the nursery, until I’ve no choice but to go downstairs and meet my father. We are to interview a potential candidate for stablemaster today.

An odd sort of humming exists in my skull, and I find I am rather disappointed at the prospect of a new stablemaster. It was around this time last year when Peeta and I first consummated our marriage, when I discovered the boundless joys and pleasures to be found in his arms, and also when I discovered the depth of my love for him. The presence of a new stable master will curtail a repeat of our tryst in the hay and I am rather upset about that, so that I am near to scowling as the man stands from his seat in the kitchens to greet me and my father.

“Mr. Henderson, I presume?” my father asks and the man gives a slight bow of respect.

“Aye, Mr. Everdeen.” His voice is somehow soft and lilting. Soothing. His accent is unfamiliar to me, but he has the sort of calming voice that horses respond to.

“Shall we walk and talk?” The man nods and glances at me. “This is my daughter. She and her husband will one day run the farm in trust for their children, and she oversees much of the operations already. You will address her as Mrs. Mellark.”

The man drops his hat. My scowl deepens at this as he bends to retrieve it. “Of course, sir.”

Other than that slight at the beginning, the interview goes well. He seems kind enough, and the horses take to him immediately. Even Sagittaria preens for him.

“And this is Peeta’s horse...my husband’s,” I say as we come to the final stall. I quickly explain Cicero’s deafness and that Peeta will have to teach him the hand communications. Mr. Henderson nods and mentions that he’s heard of such techniques, but never seen them in action.

After that, it seems fairly straightforward. Mr. Handerson comes to us from an estate in Northwest Panem, bringing excellent references.

“If you do not mind my asking, why did you leave your prior employment?”

“Nothing to do with the job or the family, you see. My wife passed away last year.” He glances at me and I manage to look sympathetic, I believe. Either way, he continues to look into my eyes as he speaks. “She had a wasting disease, took her too young, but not ‘afore she had a second chance at life. Still...it were hard staying there without her. She were my second chance too. My second wife and well, it didn’t seem right to push my luck for a third chance with the same family, although they were good to us. Memories just got the better of me.”

“My condolences for your loss,” my father says and at this, some sort of spell seems to be broken. They manage an awkward transition to discussing the terms of employment and we make our way behind the stable to show him his new living quarters. He seems pleased enough, and once the deal is done, he sets to work.

Miranda races into the stables as Mr. Henderson sees Sagittaria saddled for our daily ride. Charles tends to Cicero and laughs as Miranda careens to a halt, grasping onto my skirts.

“Mother! I am going with you today!”

“Then it will be all the more fun.” I smile down at her then up at Peeta as he enters the stable. He’s favoring his leg again and I make an exasperated motion towards his laboured movements.

“I will rest when we return, my love, but I will not miss this time with my family,” he says and kisses me softly on the forehead before turning to Cicero.

I feel eyes on us the entire time, and as I watch Miranda handed up to sit with Peeta, I discover the culprit. Mr. Henderson seems to have a deep interest in my love or my daughter, or both... I take Sagittaria’s reins and make a note to investigate further after our ride.

It is a lovely day, and we picnic by the lake, visit with a few tenants, and then return home. I dismount quickly, take Miranda into my arms to allow Peeta to dismount. I feel the need to see to Beatrice, but a cough behind me as Miranda scampers off catches my attentions.

I turn to find Mr. Henderson twisting his hat in his hands, a nervous look about his brown eyes. “Your pardon, Mr. and Mrs. Mellark. If you’ve a moment, I am afraid I’ve a confession to make.”

“We are no clerics, Mr. Henderson,” I manage to say politely, although I am beginning to think hiring him was a mistake.

“What I’ve to say is not for the Lord, Mrs. Mellark, but for him,” Mr. Henderson motions towards Peeta and I can see the surprise in my husband’s face.

“Should we perhaps talk elsewhere?”

“No, no,” Mr. Handerson says. “If you find what I’ve to tell you distasteful and it costs me this post, I’d rather be done with it now.” I am about to suggest we fetch my father first if his confession has bearing on his employment, but Mr. Henderson dives into his explanation.

“I wasn’t sure at first, see. I answered the listing by a Mr. Kent Everdeen. I’d no idea you would be here. Then I still weren’t sure when Mr. Everdeen introduced Mrs. Mellark. Mrs. Mellark...well with four acknowledged sons there had to be at least a few Mrs. Mellarks about, maybe it wasn’t you...but no. Then she calls her husband Peeta, your pardon for my familiarity sir, and then I knew.”

“Knew what?” Peeta asks, and there is a strain in his voice that frightens me.

“Who you are. Yer mother. Gertrude. Well, she went by Gertrude when we were married, but I suppose you wouldn’t know that. You’d know her as Nancy Thackeray, right?” The man only grows more nervous and agitated as his confession spills out. Peeta’s body only grows more rigid beside me. “She was sick, see? Found her on the back doorstep in Capitol nigh on eight years ago, naught but skin and bones, knocking on death’s door, hair dyed black and the dye fading already. I weren’t there. It was my sister who found her. She was the cook and another sister the housekeeper. Well they couldn’t bear to leave her dying so they took her in, nursed her back. The Odairs...well they’re kindly folk you know? Would never turn away a body in need if they could help it. Do you know the Odairs?”

“Not personally,” Peeta says. “Only by reputation. They’re a seafaring family.”

“They are. They were in Capitol at the time, beastly cold winter, but they went to see family and then had to stay when their son took ill. Well with the doctor already calling to see to young Sebastian, he didn’t mind seeing to Gertrude as well. Eventually she got well enough to work and...she worked. Lady's maid to Mistress Annie’s sister, Miss Patricia, who lived with the family at the time. Then when Miss Patricia were married, Gertrude worked as a companion to Captain Odair’s grandmother. And I were stable master. When the family came home to their estate in Northwest Panem after that winter...well it were a second chance for us both, you see?”

“You were married,” I offer the encouragement, because I am not certain Peeta has not fallen into shock right now.

“Aye. And we were happy. I… I loved her dearly, I did. We were a comfort to one another. I’d lost my first wife and a son. Eventually, she told me all about you, and her first husband William. How she always wanted to see how you were doing but was scared.”

“Scared? Of what?” Peeta asks, perhaps more harshly than necessary, but to hear all of this now… He turns away from me and I place a hand on his back.

“Please understand, Mr. Henderson. We’ve been looking for Nancy for a year, Peeta has been looking even longer. Any news you have is welcome, but also a shock.” The man nods and swallows, looking directly at Peeta’s back as he speaks again, softly this time.

“She was afraid you would not recognise her. Or worse, that you would hate her for what she done. But she did it so you wouldn’t starve. She always told me you were brave and strong enough to be the best of men, even with the worst of fathers. And you were always in her heart. She drew your face most of all.” At this, Peeta turns slowly and Mr. Henderson produces a small book from his jacket. “Been carrying this since she died. Didn’t know what to do with it. Think now maybe providence wanted me to keep it for you. She said you used to draw with her.”

“Yes,” Peeta chokes out the word and takes the book. He does not open it but lifts watery eyes to Mr. Hendrson. “And Miranda? Was Miranda in her heart?”

“Miranda?” Mr. Henderson asks in true confusion and then understanding dawns. “You mean the babe? The one she left at the orphanage? That were right before my sisters found her. She never gave the babe a name. Had no...connection with the child. By then she were so lost and desperate...I cannot blame her for it. How do you know of the child?”

“We adopted her,” I explain. “We found her while we were looking for Nancy...for Gertrude. Now she is our daughter.”

“So you brought her home to be yours to love. The little red haired girl what rode with you today?” Mr. Henderson says and a bright smile spreads across his face when I nod. He shakes his head but there are tears in her eyes. “I’ll be. She were right then.” He tilts his head back to look heavenward and I bow my head, to allow him this moment.

I feel terrible, but a strange joy fills me at this. Every last doubt flutters off on the crisp autumn breeze. Miranda is well and truly our daughter. No disputes over the matter.

“She woulda been proud of you. A doctor, a husband, and a father beside.”

“She would have hated my face,” Peeta says and then rakes a hand through his hair. Mr. Henderson seems confused by this. “Never mind. Thank you, Mr. Henderson, for having the courage to tell me. Where is she now?” Peeta whispers, and I take his hand in mine, already knowing the answer and understanding now the import Mr. Henderson was trying to give me in his interview.

“She passed last autumn, about this time of year. I saw her buried in the church yard, next to my first wife and a child we lost. Made sure she had a nice marker, if you want to visit her some day.”

“Thank you,” Peeta murmurs one last time and then threads my arm through his. Before he can lead me away, I say one more thing to Mr. Henderson.

“See Mrs. Chilton if you’ve questions about meal times. Sae can answer any concerns about other household matters,” I tell him. His eyes widen and he nods.

“Then I’m not…”

“We are in need of a capable stable master,” I tell him and Peeta squeezes my fingers. “Welcome to Everdeen, Mr. Henderson.”

We move to leave and he steps after us, halting our retreat.

“She wouldn’t hate your face, Mr. Mellark. Mayhap your surname, but...what’s in a name? She had about a dozen in her life, but that don’t change her heart, nor who she was.”

For some reason, Peeta smiles now, and manages one soft nod before we walk out of the stable and into the fading autumn light. 

When we reach the house, there is a minor uproar. Several of Prim’s gowns have arrived from town, only enough to start her for the season. The rest will be waiting for her at Uncle Haymitch and Aunt Effie’s. Peeta and I will stay here to see to Everdeen while my parents take a much needed break, if overseeing the launching of a girl into society can be seen as a break.

Prim whispers to me that she not only has weeks worth of engagements already lined up, but she’s already received her first invite to a ball. The curiosity about the younger Miss Everdeen, as the eldest had such an exciting albeit brief season in town, has already made Primrose something of a novelty. Aunt Effie will be in her element, no doubt.

I usher Peeta into the library and order him off his feet, and even to remove his leg for some rest. When the chaos of the evening finally settles, I find him in our room, sitting before a cheering fire and dressed in his robe, his cane near at hand and his head bent as he peruses a small book.

“He said it was painless. In her sleep. She’d been sick for some time and it was slowly killing her anyways.” I sit beside him and twist my fingers through his curls, glance down at the sketches he now stares at. I recognise some of the faces, having seen portraits of Peeta as a boy, having seen Peeta’s own sketches of William Thackeray. Mr. Henderson’s face is now familiar. There are several others who are strangers to me as well, some with names at the bottom.

“Curious,” I say. “Isn’t the name of this town the one Rory mentioned when he was speaking of the mines Gale has settled on him as a future wedding gift?”

“I believe so,” Peeta says. He turns to me then, his face void of emotion. “I have written to Haymitch and both our solicitors with the new information, asked them to confirm Mr. Hendrson’s story.”

“You do not trust him?”

“No, I do, only...I suppose I am holding out foolish hope, although for what I do not know.”

“Perhaps you only seek definitive closure.”

“Perhaps,” he says quietly. “Or perhaps it is fear. He said she passed this time last year and we...you and I…”

“Beatrice was conceived this time last year,” I say and he nods.

“Difficult to not wonder if there is some sort of connection. She never even knew you, or her grandchildren--” I silence his words with a kiss and when I lift my head, he does not speak again.

“She knew you, and if love can be felt in the afterlife, then she knows all the rest,” I say. Then I smile and press his body back to lay on the sofa. “Now husband...will you at last give me what I want?”

“Don’t I always?” I yelp as he flips us over and we tumble to the floor, tangled together and lips melded together. I sigh as his lips leave mine and he smiles at me. “But in the name of continued marital bliss and certainty, tell me exactly what you want, my pearl.”

“You, Peeta. I want you,” I say and he grins before kissing along my neck. I gasp out the rest before taking advantage and rolling us so that I straddle him. “And I want another child. Are you going to be stubborn again or are you going to let me have my way?”

“Please, my love. By all means, have your wicked way with me.”


	34. Epilogue

My daughter is always dancing. My moonbeam girl with dark olive skin, dark hair like mine that is perpetually escaping its ribbons, and her intent blue, blue eyes. Like her father’s. Even when she walks, I swear she is dancing.

I watch her now, twelve years old, with her stockings and shoes removed as she races along the shoreline, her brother trailing behind her, dragging a stick through the sand and calling out to his pup. The brown ball of fur yaps happily and dives into the waves, only to retreat and growl at them, gnashing his teeth in the surf.

“Bea! Bea! Look at Biscuit! I think she’s caught a fish!”

“She’s caught a wave, William,” Beatrice says and spins about, skipping further down the shore.

I smile and tuck my head up against Peeta’s shoulder as we walk sedately, arm in arm at the edge of the surf, not trying to keep up with our children, only to keep an eye on them. We’ve already walked this stretch of sand and now make the return journey, new footsteps mingling with old, some untouched, some half washed away by the sea. In the distance, chalky cliffs rise up from the mists of the ocean.

I watch our son play with his pup. Ten years old, all smiles and sunshine curls. He looks exactly like Peeta, save for his quicksilver eyes, sharp and keen. He may have sun in his hair and clouds in his eyes, but there is always dirt beneath his nails and in the creases of his palms. A love of growing things rooted deep in his heart.

“Ow! William! Your dog ruined my pages!”

“Sorry, Daniel. Biscuit only wanted to play.” Our second son scowls, a storm forming in his features. Always serious and intent, that one. With fire in his hair and in his soul, with smoke in his eyes. Freckles paint his nose, and paint freckles his fingers. Sometimes I wish he would play more, but already at the age of eight, he is a dedicated and serious artiste.

“Oh that one’s wonderful!” Beatrice says, pointing to the drawing as Daniel shakes sand off another.

“Back to the house now,” Peeta says, pausing to ruffle Daniel’s hair. “We’ve finished our walk, and you can finish your drawing in the house, free from wind and sand and puppies.”

Daniel grumbles but stands from the spot where he set himself while the rest of us walked. He brushes sand from his pants and gathers his things before hurrying after his siblings, calling after them to wait.

“Are you sure you do not wish another?” I ask Peeta and lower my lashes to play coy with him.

“Haven’t we enough children to wear us out and interrupt us in the night? Any more and I shall never have another chance to make love to you,” he whispers and I laugh. I know his words are merely teasing. Peeta adores our children and wanted each and every one of them so badly, as I wanted them. “I will simply be too tired for you, my pearl.”

“You are never too tired to love me,” I remind him and am rewarded with a naughty kiss behind my ear. 

“It is a public beach!” Madge calls out I wave at her. She makes her way through the tall sea grass lining the path as she descends from the dunes, a quartet of girls trailing behind her, like so many goslings.

Maysilee, tall and willowy, elegant and always with a spark of adventure in her eyes. Now grown to the age of sixteen and anticipating her entrance to society. She carries a picnic basket and delicately holds her skirts to keep them from dragging in the burs.

Cordelia, my effervescent niece, five and already showing the promise of beauty from her mother, hurries down the slope and into my side. “Will you sing with me tonight, Aunt Katniss? Aunt Madge says she will play for us.”

“Of course, my duck,” I say and she smiles, linking arms with the third girl, Madge and Gale’s one and only child. Quiet, kind, and thoughtful Bethany with her violet eyes and dark hair. She and Cordelia are the same age, born within days of one another, and dear friends. Once they reach the flat beach, they run off together.

“When will Gale and Darius arrive?” I ask.

“This afternoon,” Madge says as she walks beside me, her shoes swinging on the tips of her fingers and a picnic basket on her arm, a crown of sea grass and tiny white blooms in her hair. Miranda skips ahead of us with Maysilee, both girls wear matching crowns, the picture of a tranquil day by the sea. Although, I notice Miranda’s fingers play with a shell tied close to her throat with a sea blue ribbon of silk. 

She is nervous about tonight, I think.

“Just in time for the party,” I say instead of questioning Miranda’s uncharacteristically quiet mood.

“And none of the real work,” Madge adds. “They may already be at the house.”

Willow Park has been rebuilt, every bit as large yet not nearly as ostentatious as the former house. The fields, left unused and untended so long were perfect for the raising of horses. It took time. Time for Gale and I to come to a sort of truce and dare I say...friendship. As long as he does not start ranting, he is not so bad. If nothing else, he treats Madge well. It took time for me to understand that their marriage was not and would never be anything like my own, and yet that suits them both just fine. While I do not pretend to understand the particulars, I know that it seems to work for them and that Madge is content. I understand that, in a way, they protect one another through the rings on their fingers and all the appearances of a happily married couple. Their marriage is, in a way, a mask.

Between her influence and Darius’, Gale is not so intolerable. He’s even managed to develop a soft spot for the children he is godfather to, has even written his will in such a way to pass Everdeen on to his godson, my William, the inheritance to be maintained and kept in trust through his parents until he comes of age. It is perhaps not a perfect solution. Everdeen is not mine outright, but it is enough. I will be able to raise my children in her bosom then hand her over to their care.

As we enter the courtyard of Prim and Rory’s home, I can already tell that chaos is underway. Windows have been opened and shouting travels out to the gardens. I lean my head back and glance over the lanterns strung in the trees. Rory works with several servants to set up long tables for food.

“How can we help?” Peeta asks and Rory motions towards the house.

“I believe Prim is fretting over the crafts. She’s unused to hosting so many.”

I take one last breath of the salty air, kiss my husband on the cheek, and then go to find my sister. I smile as I find her, bent over her pregnant belly as best she can, holding Cordelia’s hand. Prim had her season, and then a second, but despite both being a smashing success with dozens of suitors vying for her attention, at the end of it all, it was Rory whose proposal she anticipated and his whom she accepted.

As a wedding gift, Gale bequeathed his mines in Northwestern Panem to his brother. The newlywed couple moved to the coast and settled in quickly. They do well enough, and Prim has even trained as a doctor. Granted, the universities with not bestow the title on her officially, but that does not prevent the locals from seeking her service, nor from referring to her as Doctor Hawthorne.

“Yes, darling of course I will help with your dress. As soon as I finish here,” she assures her daughter.

“We have this, you go help Cordelia,” I offer, stripping my gloves and taking over arranging the materials for Prim. Madge hums as we work side by side and I find myself singing a few bars as well.

Laughter and then a perfumed wind as more children rush about, weaving between our skirts as I admonish them to slow down. I shake my head at my two youngest, my twin girls, and at their cousins giving chase.

“Not that way, Juliette! They’ll be this way!”

Always up to mischief, those two, my Juliette and Viola. As pale and freckled as Peeta, with his blue eyes and my dark hair, and my mother’s features. One as hopelessly romantic as the other is hopelessly pragmatic. A late surprise and now, already a handful at the age of six.

“Ah, Katniss,” Robert says and pauses to kiss my cheek. “You didn’t happen to see where my children went?”

“In pursuit of my girls, and I think probably looking for Emma or one of their other cousins.” I point him in the right direction. It is not often that so many pieces of our family gather in one place, although it has been happening more and more often since the Marquis passed five years ago and Ethan came into the title. He was right about his wife and I. Sara and I are in fact a formidable pairing and quickly became good friends once we’d finally had the chance to meet at Beatrice’s christening.

The marquis’ funeral was a sombre occasion with all four brothers and their family gathered. I could not spare much grief for the deceased, but the man did give Peeta an opportunity none other could. I suppose in that way, I shall have to find it in me to be grateful one of these days. I will not hold my breath in waiting for that emotion to surface.

“Thank you,” Robert says and moves to leave, hesitating for a moment.

“Last I saw them, Viola had a pink ribbon in her hair and Juliette’s was braided with a green ribbon,” I tell him.

“You are a marvel,” he says with relief and then leaves while Madge and I hide our giggles. My twins delight in confusing their Uncle Robert as to which is which and have done so to extort sweets, all manner of promises, and sometimes simply for a laugh. Their Aunt Delly is often their favorite accomplice in the deception.

The afternoon is a blur of creation and laughter after that. Keeping the children on task as they fashion their own masks then play games about the garden while wearing them. Dinner and then putting the young ones to bed, even as the guests from nearby begin to arrive. Now it is time for the adults to carouse. Prim and Rory’s spring masquerade has apparently become a staple in the local region, the invitations almost coveted, which makes little sense, given how generous Prim is with the invites.

There is one of my children I’ve seen little of today and once I am dressed, I seek her out. She answers my knock and I enter, nearly gasping at how beautiful she is, almost regal in her bearing but mysterious in her expression, her red curls in a tangle on her head with a few escaping to trail over her brow and neck. Her dress is a simple shade of spring green. A pile of books, papers, and a pot of ink are scattered on her dressing table.

Miranda, my bewitching storyteller. Twenty years old and in love, yearning to be married. Her eyes meet mine in the glass and I notice her fingers playing with the seashell necklace about her throat. I smile slyly and shut the door behind me.

“Are you ready?”

“Almost. Will you help me with my mask, Mother?” I nod and take it from her, a delicate thing of twisted bits of copper and gold that bring coral reefs to mind. She holds it in place as I tie the ribbon that matches her dress in a pretty bow, nestled in her curls. She turns her head to examine her appearance and then stands, the blush of youth and love upon her cheeks. 

“We should… we should get you ready as well,” Miranda says in a rush and I allow her to pamper me for a moment, fixing my own mask in place and adjusting the feathers for me.

“I’ve not worn this mask in years,” I admit to her and she smiles. Peeta’s timing is perfect then, knocking on the door to escort us both downstairs. He takes Miranda’s arm and I follow in trail, watching them together.

Peeta is a natural father, as I never had any doubts he would be. Adoring, affectionate, and with his wide strong arms, chest, and shoulders, the perfect place for an infant to nestle and sleep, the perfect place for a child to seek solace and courage, and now the perfect place for a young woman to cling as her knees no doubt shake with nerves, his voice low as he murmurs encouragement only for her hear. 

Miranda took to her young sister immediately and has never ceased being protective and watchful of her younger siblings. As a child, she would sing to them and make beautiful tapestries of coloured threads that she claimed were meant to keep away the bad things, hanging them on the outside of and above Beatrice’s bassinet and then each new sibling in turn. As a young woman, she spun tales and with Maysilee, would mount expeditions and ventures, bringing each new addition to our ever growing family along for the fun when they were old enough, filling our house with laugher and joy. But now she is a woman grown, with a woman’s heart for love and a woman’s desire for her own sort of adventure where her siblings cannot follow.

She nods in response to her father’s words and then leans up on her toes to kiss his cheek before slipping away into the crowd to greet her friends, cousins and several of the local girls all gathered about. Ethan’s oldest gasps and immediately clasps Miranda’s hands, spinning about with her so that all might admire their dresses, I suppose. Peeta claims my arm as I spot Gale across the room, already engaged in a heated discussion. 

Then I cannot resist turning my gaze upon my husband. I get a little lost in the shape of his lips and the shadows the mask causes about his eyes. I begin to plan a salacious encounter. I never did have that night of passion with my husband while wearing nothing but a mask. Tonight would be a good night to indulge.

“Have I a bit of food in my teeth, wife?” he murmurs and glances at me, slight concern in his eyes as I shake my head with a smile.

“No, husband. Nothing so horrifying.”

“Then what about me has so snared your attention?” I wave towards the men surrounding Gale. Robert is in their midst and I shrug one shoulder. Gale has been considering running for a seat in parliament, a place where he might be able to affect true change. Madge is uncertain that it is wise, given the level of scrutiny such a position would bring on their lives.

I might have been married to either of them, Robert or Gale. I fortunately was not.

“Much like men cannot help comparing their horses, women cannot help comparing their husbands.”

“Need I be concerned about your eyes wandering to more desirable horseflesh?” Peeta asks.

“Indeed not. None are more desirable than you.”

“I am glad to hear it, for if not, I would have to regretfully remind you that you are not the sort of rider such a horse will tolerate.”

“Do you disparage me, husband?”

“Far from it, my love,” he murmurs and glances about before pressing me back into a shadowed alcove. His words kiss over my lips as he bends close to whisper them. His fingers trace over my decolletage, taunting me with such a delicate touch, making me quiver with need and anticipation. “You know I desire you to ride me whenever the fancy strikes you. I would beg for it, if need be. Already I am eager for our next ride. You know what I refer to.”

I do, but now is not the time nor the place to discuss such things, especially given the new arrivals and the commotion they cause.

Rory welcomes his neighbors and ensures they receive refreshments. I catch the tail end of an introduction to another of his guests.

“Captain Finnick Sebastian Odair the second, his lovely wife Mrs. Annie Cresta Odair, and their son… Lieutenant Finnick Sebastian Odair the third.”

Those closest to him call Finnick’s son Sebastian. I smile as he speaks with several guests, although his eyes continue to wander to the side. I follow them and smile more deeply as I find Miranda returning the stare. She ceases her perpetual touching of the shell about her neck, curtsies slightly and then turns back to her friends. Within moments, Sebastian has excused himself and makes his way through the crowd. Before he reaches her, Miranda slips from the room.

She’s been talking with Aunt Effie again, I see.

“How long should we give them before one of us interrupts?” Peeta asks and I laugh. The sound must draw Finnick and Annie’s attention to us, because his eyes meet mine and I distinctly see him wink, even from behind his mask. The rogue. If he weren’t such a friend to Peeta and I, if he weren’t so clearly in love with his wife, and his son so clearly in love with our daughter, I would scold him for being an incorrigible flirt. Thankfully, I do not have to. No one seeing the Odairs together could doubt their love.

“At least give them privacy long enough for one kiss,” I tell Peeta. They’ve not seen one another for some time now. Allow your daughter a bit of fun in her courtship.”

“He’s been at sea for months. They’ve already had long enough for a kiss and then too much,” Peeta says and takes two steps after them.

I grasp his arm and pull him back towards me. “One dance with your wife first?”

“Very well, my pearl.”

I laugh as he spins me ahead of him towards the garden doors and out into the night. The air is fragrant with salt, fresh with the breeze, and filled with laughter. The gardens are well lit and busy. There are few places to hide, but even if there were, it would not matter. We’ve barely made it across the threshold when Sebastian is there, his gloved fingers twisted tightly together with Miranda’s.

“Doctor Mellark...might I have a moment of your time?” Sebastian asks. Peeta nods and the pair steps aside. Miranda takes my hand. She’s trembling but there is a bright smile on her face that absolutely nothing could dim. I suppose a trip to Capitol is in order. Effie will be delighted to help us with wedding plans.


End file.
